THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


WINTER  EVENING 
TALES. 


AMELIA  E.  BARR, 

Author  of  "A  Bow  of  Orange  Ribbon,"  "Jan  Vedder's  Wife," 
"  Friend  Olivia,"   etc.,  etc. 


PUBLISHED  BY 
TTHE    CHRISTIAN 

LOUIS  KLOPSCH,  Proprietor, 
BIBLE    HOUSE,    NEW   YORK. 


Copyright,  1896, 
BY  Louis  KLOPSCH. 


PRESS  AND  BINDERY  OF 
HISTORICAL    PUBLISHING   CO.. 

PHILADELPHIA. 


IPS 


PREFACE. 

In  these  ' ( Winter  Evening  Tales, ' '  Mrs.  Barr 
has  spread  before  her  readers  a  feast  that  will  afford 
the  rarest  enjoyment  for  many  a  leisure  hour. 
There  are  few  writers  of  the  present  day  whose 
genius  has  such  a  luminous  quality,  and  the  spell 
of  whose  fancy  carries  us  along  so  delightfully  on 
its  magic  current.  In  these  "Tales " — each  a  per- 
fect gem  of  romance,  in  an  artistic  setting — the 
author  has  touched  many  phases  of  human  nature. 
Some  of  the  stories  in  the  collection  sparkle  with 
the  spirit  of  mirth;  others  give  glimpses  of  the 
sadder  side  of  life.  Throughout  all,  there  are 
found  that  broad  sympathy  and  intense  humanity 
that  characterize  every  page  that  comes  from  her 
pen.  Her  men  and  women  are  creatures  of  real 
flesh  and  blood,  not  deftly-handled  puppets;  they 
move,  act  and  speak  spontaneously,  with  the  full 
vigor  of  life  and  the  strong  purpose  of  persons  who 
are  participating  in  a  real  drama,  and  not  a  make- 
believe. 

Mrs.  Barr  has  the  rare  gift  of  writing  from  heart 
to  heart.  She  unconsciously  infuses  into  her 
readers  a  liberal  share  of  the  enthusiasm  that 
moves  the  people  of  her  creative  imagination. 
One  cannot  read  any  of  her  books  without  feeling 
more  than  a  spectator's  interest;  we  are,  for  the 
moment,  actual  sharers  in  the  joys  and  the  sorrows, 
the  misfortunes  and  the  triumphs  of  the  men  and 
women  to  whom  she  introduces  us.  Our  sympathy, 
our  love,  our  admiration,  are  kindled  by  their 
noble  and  attractive  qualities;  our  mirth  is  excited 


8J&566 


4  Preface. 

by  the  absurd  and  incongruous  aspects  of  some 
characters,  and  our  hearts  are  thrilled  by  the  fre- 
quent revelation  of  such  goodness  and  true  human 
feeling  as  can  only  come  from  pure  and  noble 
souls. 

In  these  <c  Tales,"  as  in  many  of  her  other  works, 
humble  life  has  held  a  strong  attraction  for  Mrs. 
Barr's  pen.  Her  mind  and  heart  naturally  turn  in 
this  direction ;  and  although  her  wonderful  talent, 
within  its  wide  range,  deals  with  all  stations  and 
conditions  of  life,  she  has  but  little  relish  for  the 
gilded  artificialities  of  society,  and  a  strong  love 
for  those  whose  condition  makes  life  for  them 
something  real  and  earnest  and  definite  of  purpose. 
For  this  reason,  among  many  others,  the  Christian 
people  of  America  have  a  hearty  admiration  for 
Mrs.  Barr  and  her  work,  knowing  it  to  be  not  only 
of  surpassing  human  interest,  but  spiritually  help- 
f.ul  and  inspiring,  with  an  influence  that  makes  for 
morality  and  good  living,  in  the  highest  sense  in 
which  a  Christain  understands  the  term. 

G.  H.  SANDISON. 
New  York,  1896. 


CONTENTS. 

MMb 

"Cash;"  a  Problem  of  Profit  and  Loss,  ...  7 

Franz  Miiller's  Wife, 37 

The  Voice  at  Midnight, 54 

Six  and  Half-a-Dozen, 64 

The  Story  of  David  Morrison, 72 

Tom  Duff  an 's  Daughter,        . 95 

The  Harvest  of  the  Wind, 112 

The  Seven  Wise  Men  of  Preston, 156 

Margaret  Sinclair's  Silent  Money,    .....  164 

Just  What  He  Deserved, 198 

An  Only  Offer, 222 

Two  Fair  Deceivers, 235 

The  Two  Mr.  Smiths, 247 

The  Story  of  Mary  Neil, 266 

The  Heiress  of  Kurston  Chace, 2/1 

Only  This  Once, 286 

Petralto's  Love  Story, 301 


(5) 


Winter  Evening  Tal?s. 


CASH. 

A  PROBLEM   OF  PROFIT  AND  LOSS,  WORKED 
BY   DAVID   LOCKERBY. 

PART  I. 

' '  Gold  may  be  dear  bought. ' ' 

A  narrow  street  with  dreadful  ' '  wynds' ' 
and  "vennels"  running  back  from  it  was 
the  High  street  of  Glasgow  at  the  time  my 
story  opens.  And  yet,  though  dirty,  noisy 
and  overcrowded  with  sin  and  suffering,  a 
flavor  of  old  time  royalty  and  romance 
lingered  amid  its  vulgar  surroundings;  and 
midway  of  its  squalid  length  a  quaint 
brown  frontage  kept  behind  it  noble  halls 
of  learning,  and  pleasant  old  courts  full  of 
the  ' '  air  of  still  delightful  studies. ' ' 

From  this  building  came  out  two  young 
men  in  academic  costume.  One  of  them 
set  his  face  dourly  against  the  clammy  fog 
and  drizzling  rain,  breathing  it  boldly,  as  if 
it  was  the  balmiest  oxygen;  the  other, 
shuddering,  drew  his  scarlet  toga  around 
(7) 


8  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

him  and  said,  mournfully,  "Ech,  Davie, 
the  High  street  is  an  ill  furlong  on  the 
de'il's  road!  I  never  tread  it,  but  I  think 
o'  the  weary,  weary  miles  atween  it  and 
Eden." 

"There  is  no  road  without  its  bad  league, 
Willie,  and  the  High  street  has  its  com- 
pensations; its  prison  for  ill-doers,  its 
learned  college,  and  its  holy  High  Kirk. 
I  am  one  of  St.  Mungo's  bairns,  and  I'm 
not  above  preaching  for  my  saint." 

' '  And  St.  Mungo  will  be  proud  of  your 
birthday  yet,  Davie.  With  such  a  head 
and  such  a  tongue,  with  knowledge  behind, 
and  wit  to  the  fore,  there  is  a  broad  road 
and  an  open  door  for  David  Lockerby. 
You  may  come  even  to  be  the  Lord  Rector 
o'  Glasgow  College  yet. ' ' 

1 '  Wisdom  is  praised  and  starves ;  I  am 
thinking  it  would  set  me  better  to  be  Lord 
Provost  of  Glasgow  city. ' ' 

'  'The  man  who  buried  his  one  talent  did 
not  go  scatheless,  Davie ;  and  what  now  if 
he  had  had  ten?" 

"You  are  aye  preaching,  Willie,  and 
whiles  it  is  very  untimeous.  Are  you 
going  to  Mary  Moir's  to-night?" 

' '  Why  should  I  ?  The  only  victory  over 
love  is  through  running  away. ' ' 

David  looked  sharply  at  his  companion 
but  as  they  were  at  the  Trongate  there  was 
no  time  for  further  remark.  Willie  Caird 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  9 

turned  eastward  toward  Glasgow  Green, 
David  hailed  a  passing  omnibus  and  was 
soon  set  down  before  a  handsome  house  on 
the  Sauchiehall  Road.  He  went  in  by  the 
back  door,  winning  from  old  Janet,  in  spite 
of  herself,  the  grimmest  shadow  of  a  smile. 

"Are  my  father  and  mother  at  home, 
Janet?" 

' '  Deed  are  they,  the  mair  by  token  that 
they  hae  been  quarreling  anent  you  till 
the  peacefu'  folks  like  myseP  could  hae 
wished  them  mair  sense,  or  further  away. ' ' 

' '  Why  should  they  quarrel  about  me?' ' 

"Why,  indeed,  since  they'll  no  win  past 
your  ain  makin'  or  marring?  But  the. 
mistress  is  some  kin  to  Zebedee's  wife,  I'm 
thinking,  and  she  wad  fain  set  you  up  in  a 
pu'pit  and  gie  you  the  keys  o'  St.  Peter; 
while  maister  is  for  haeing  you  it  a  bank 
or  twa  in  your  pouch,  and  add  Bllenmount 
to  Lockerby,  and — ' ' 

' '  And  if  I  could,  Janet  ? ' ' 

"Tut,  tut,  lad!  If  it  werna  for  'if  yow 
might  put  auld  Scotland  in  a  bottle. ' ' 

"But  what  was  the  upshot,  Janet?" 

"I  canna  tell.  God  alone  understan's 
quarreling  folk. ' ' 

Then  David  went  upstairs  to  his  own 
room,  and  when  he  came  down  again  his 
face  was  set  as  dourly  against  the  coming 
interview  as  it  had  been  against  the  mist 
and  rain.  The  point  at  issue  was  quite 


IO  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

familiar  to  him;  his  mother  wished  him  to 
continue  his  studies  and  prepare  for  the 
ministry.  In  her  opinion  the  greatest  of 
all  men  were  the  servants  of  the  King,  and 
a  part  of  the  spiritual  power  and  social  in- 
fluence which  they  enjoyed  in  St.  Mungo's 
ancient  city  she  earnestly  coveted  for  her 
son.  "  Didn't  the  Bailies  and  the  Lord 
Provost  wait  for  them  ?  And  were  not  even 
the  landed  gentry  and  nobles  obligated  to 
walk  behind  a  minister  in  his  gown  and 
bands?" 

Old  Andrew  Lockerby  thought  the  honor 
good  enough,  but  money  was  better.  All 
the  twenty  years  that  his  wife  had  been 
dreaming  of  David  ruling  his  flock  from 
the  very  throne  of  a  pulpit,  Andrew7  had 
been  dreaming  of  him  becoming  a  great 
merchant  or  banker,  and  winning  back  the 
fair  lands  of  Ellenmount,  once  the  patri- 
monial estate  of  the  house  of  Lockerby. 
During  these  twenty  years  both  husband 
and  wife  had  clung  tenaciously  to  their 
several  intentions. 

Now  David's  teachers — without  any 
knowledge  of  these  diverse  influences — had 
urged  on  him  the  duty  of  cultivating  the 
unusual  talents  confided  to  him,  and  of 
consecrating  them  to  some  noble  service  of 
God  and  humanity.  But  David  was  ruled 
by  many  opposite  feelings,  and  had  with 
all  his  book-learning  the  very  smallest 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  1 1 

intimate  acquaintance  with  himself.  He 
knew  neither  his  strong  points  nor  his 
weak  ones,  and  had  not  even  a  suspicion  of 
the  mighty  potency  of  that  mysterious  love 
for  gold  which  really  was  the  ruling  passion 
in  his  breast. 

The  argument  so  long  pending  he  knew 
was  now  to  be  finally  settled,  and  he  was 
by  no  means  unprepared  for  the  discussion. 
He  came  slowly  down  stairs,  counting  the 
points  he  wished  to  make  on  his  fingers, 
and  quite  resolved  neither  to  be  coaxed  nor 
bullied  out  of  his  own  individual  opinion. 
He  was  a  handsome,  stalwart  fellow,  as 
Scotchmen  of  two-and-twenty  go,  for  it 
takes  about  thirty -five  years  to  fill  up  and 
perfect  the  massive  frames  of  ' '  the  men  of 
old  Gaul."  About  his  thirty -fifth  year 
David  would  doubtless  be  a  man  of  noble 
presence;  but  even  now  there  was  a  sense 
of  youth  and  power  about  him  that  was 
very  attractive,  as  with  a  grave  smile  he 
lifted  a  book,  and  comfortably  disposed 
himself  in  an  easy  chair  by  the  window. 
For  David  knew  better  than  begin  the  con- 
versation; any  advantages  the  defendant 
might  have  he  determined  to  retain. 

After  a  few  minutes'  silence  his  father 
said,  ' '  What  are  you  reading,  Davie  ?  It 
ought  to  be  a  guid  book  that  puts  guid 
company  in  the  background." 

David    leisurely     turned    to     the     title 


12  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

page.  ' '  '  Selections  from  the  Latin  Poets, ' 
father. ' ' 

"A  fool  is  never  a  great  fool  until  he 
kens  Latin.  Adam  Smith  or  some  book  o' 
commercial  economics  wad  set  ye  better, 
Davie." 

' '  Adam  Smith  is  good  company  for  them 
that  are  going  his  way,  father:  but  there  is 
no  way  a  man  may  take  and  not  find  the 
humanities  good  road-fellows. ' ' 

"Dinna  beat  around  the  bush,  guidman; 
tell  Davie  at  once  that  you  want  him  to  go 
'prentice  to  Mammon.  He  kens  well  enough 
whether  he  can  serve  him  or  no." 

' '  I  want  Davie  to  go  'prentice  to  your  ain 
brither,  guid  wife — it's  nane  o'  my  doing 
if  you  ca'  your  ain  kin  ill  names — and, 
Davie,  your  uncle  maks  you  a  fair  offer, 
an'  you'll  just  be  a  born  fool  to  refuse 
it." 

"What  is  it,  father?" 

"Twa  years  you  are  to  serve  him  for 
^200  a  year;  and  at  the  end,  if  both  are 
satisfied,  he  will  gie  you  sich  a  share  in  the 
business  as  I  can  buy  you — and,  Davie, 
I'se  no  be  scrimping  for  such  an  end.  It's 
the  auldest  bank  in  Soho,  an'  there's  nane 
atween  you  and  the  head  o'  it.  Dinna  fling 
awa'  good  fortune — dinna  do  it,  Davie,  my 
dear  lad.  I  hae  look  it  to  you  for  twenty 
years  to  finish  what  I  hae  begun — for 
twenty  years  I  hae  been  telling  mysel'  'my 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  13 

Davie  will  win   again   the  bonnie  braes  o* 
Ellentnount. '  " 

There  were  tears  in  old  Andrew's  eyes, 
and  David's  heart  thrilled  and  warmed  to 
the  old  man's  words;  in  that  one  flash  of 
sympathy  they  came  nearer  to  each  other 
than  they  had  ever  done  before. 

And  then  spoke  his  mother:  ' '  Davie, 
my  son,  you'll  no  listen  to  ony  sich  tempta- 
tion. My  brither  is  my  brither,  and  there 
are  few  folk  o'  the  Gordon  line  a'thegither 
wrang,  but  Alexander  Gordon  is  a  dour 
man,  and  I  trow  weel  you'll  serve  hard  for 
ony  share  in  his  money  bags.  You'll  just 
gang  your  ways  back  to  college  and  tak' 
up  your  Greek  and  Hebrew  and  serve  in 
the  lyord's  temple  instead  of  Alexander 
Gordon's  Soho  Bank;  and,  Davie,  if  you'll 
do  right  in  this  matter  you'll  win  my  bless- 
ing and  every  plack  and  bawbee  o'  my . 
money."  Then,  seeing  no  change  in 
David's  face,  she  made  her  last,  great  con- 
cession— ''And,  Davie,  you  may  marry 
Mary  Moir,  an'  it  please  you,  and  I'll  like 
the  lassie  as  weel  as  may  be. ' ' 

"Your  mither,  like  a'  women,  has  sought 
you  wi'  a  bribe  in  her  hand,  Davie.  You 
ken  whether  she  has  bid  your  price  or  not. 
When  you  hae  served  your  twa  years  I'se 
buy  you  a  ,£20,000  share  in  the  Gordon 
Bank,  and  a  man  wi'  ,£20,000  can  pick  and 
choose  the  wife  he  likes  best.  But  i'm 
aboon  bribing  you — a  fair  offer  isna  a  bribe. ' ' 


14  Winter  Evening  7^ales. 

The  concession  as  to  Mary  Moir  was  the 
one  which  Davie  had  resolved  to  make  his 
turning  point,  and  now  both  father  and 
mother  had  virtually  granted  it.  He  had 
told  himself  that  no  lot  in  life  would  be 
worth  having  without  Mary,  and  that  with 
her  any  lot  would  be  happy.  Now  that  he 
had  been  left  free  in  this  matter  he  knew 
his  own  mind  as  little  as  ever. 

"The  first  step  binds  to  the  next,"  he 
answered,  thoughtfully.  "Mary  may  have 
something  to  say.  Night  brings  counsel. 
I  will  e'en  think  over  things  until  the 
morn. ' ' 

A  little  later  he  was  talking  both  offers 
over  with  Mary  Moir,  and  though  it  took 
four  hours  to  discuss  them  they  did  not  find 
the  subject  tedious.  It  was  very  late  when 
he  returned  home,  but  he  knew  by  the  light 
in  the  house-place  that  Janet  was  waiting 
up  for  him.  Coming  out  of  the  wet,  dark 
night,  it  was  pleasant  to  see  the  blazing 
ingle,  the  white-sanded  floor,  and  the  little 
round  table  holding  some  cold  moor-cock 
and  the  pastry  that  he  particularly  liked. 

"Love  is  but  cauldrife  cheer,  my  lad," 
said  Janet, "an'  the  breast  o'  a  bird  an'  a 
raspberry  tartlet  will  be  nane  out  o'  the 
way."  David  was  of  the  same  opinion. 
He  was  very  willing  to  enjoy  Janet's  good 
things  and  the  pleasant  light  and  warmth. 
Besides,  Janet  was  his  oldest  confidant  and 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  15 

friend — a  friend  that  had  never  failed  him 
in  any  of  his  boyish  troubles  or  youthful 
scrapes. 

It  gave  her  pleasure  enough  for  a  while 
to  watch  him  eat,  but  when  he  pushed 
aside  the  bird  and  stretched  out  his  hand 
for  the  raspberry  dainties,  she  said,  * '  Now 
talk  a  bit,  my  lad.  If  others  hae  wared 
money  on  you,  I  hae  wared  love,  an'  I 
want  to  ken  whether  you  are  going  to  col- 
lege, or  whether  you  are  going  to  Lunnon 
amang  the  proud,  fause  Englishers?" 

"I  am  going  to  London,  Janet." 

"Whatna  for?" 

1 '  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  any  call  to  be 
a  minister,  Janet — it  is  a  solemn  charge. ' ' 

"Then  why  not  ask  for  a  sure  call? 
There  is  nae  key  to  God's  council  chamber 
that  I  ken  of. ' ' 

' '  Mary  wants  me  to  go  to  London." 

"Bch,  sirs!  Sets  Deacon  Moir's  dochter 
to  send  a  lad  a  wrang  road.  I  wouldna 
hae  thocht  wi'  her  bringing  up  she  could 
hae  swithered  for  a  moment — but  it's  the 
auld,  auld  story ;  where  the  deil  canna  go  by 
himsel'  he  sends  a  woman.  And  David 
I/ockerby  will  tyne  his  inheritance  for  a 
pair  o'  blue  e'en  and  a  handfu'  o'  gowden 
curls.  Waly !  waly !  but  the  children  o' 
Ksau  live  for  ever." 

"Mary  said," — 

' '  I  dinna  want  to  hear  what  Mary  said. 


1 6  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

It  would  hae  been  nae  loss  if  she'd  ne'er 
spoken  on  the  matter;  but  if  you  think 
makin'  money,  an'  hoarding*  money  is  the 
measure  o'  your  capacity  you  ken  yousel', 
sir,  dootless.  Howsomever  you'll  go  to 
your  ain  room  now;  I'm  no  going  to  keep 
my  auld  e'en  waking  just  for  a  common 
business  body." 

Thus  in  spite  of  his  father's  support, 
David  did  not  find  his  road  to  London  as 
fair  and  straight  as  he  could  have  wished. 
Janet  was  deeply  offended  at  him,  and  she 
made  him  feel  it  in  a  score  of  little  ways 
very  annoying  to  a  man  fond  of  creature 
comforts  and  human  sympathy.  His  mother 
went  about  the  necessary  preparations  in  a 
tearful  mood  that  was  a  constant  reproach, 
and  his  friend  Willie  did  not  scruple  to  tell 
him  that  ''he  was  clean  out  o'  the  way  o' 
duty. ' ' 

' '  God  has  given  you  a  measure  o'  St. 
Paul's  power  o'  argument,  Davie,  and  the 
verra  tongue  o'  Apollos — weapons  where- 
with to  reason  against  all  unrighteousness 
and  to  win  the  souls  o'  men. ' ' 

"Special  pleading,  Willie." 

"Not  at  all.  Every  man's  life  bears  its 
inscription  if  he  will  take  the  trouble  to 
read  it.  There  was  James  Grahame,  born, 
as  you  may  say,  wi'  a  sword  in  his  hand, 
and  Bauldy  Strang  wi'  a  spade,  and  Andrew 
Semple  took  to  the  balances  and  the 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  IJL 

'rithmetic  as  a  duck  takes  to  the  water.  Do 
you  not  mind  the  day  you  spoke  anent  the 
African  missions  to  the  young  men  in  St. 
Andrews'  Ha'  ?  Your  words  flew  like 
arrows — every  ane  o'  them  to  its  mark; 
and  your  heart  burned  and  your  e'en 
glowed,  till  we  were  a'  on  fire  with  you, 
and  there  wasna  a  lad  there  that  wouldna 
hae  followed  you  to  the  vera  Equator.  I 
wouldna  dare  to  bury  such  a  power  for  good, 
Davie,  no,  not  though  I  buried  it  fathoms 
deep  in  gold." 

From  such  interviews  as  these  Davie 
went  home  very  miserable.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  Mary  Moir  he  would  certainly 
have  gone  back  to  his  old  seat  by  Willie 
Caird  in  the  Theological  Hall.  But  Mary 
had  such  splendid  dreams  of  their  life  in 
L,ondon,  and  she  looked  in  her  hope  and 
beauty  so  bewitching,  that  he  could  not  bear 
to  hint  a  disappointment  to  her.  Besides, 
he  doubted  whether  she  was  really  fit  for  a 
minister's  wife,  even  if  he  should  take  up 
the  cross  laid  down  before  him — and  as  for 
giving  up  Mary,  he  would  not  admit  to 
himself  that  there  could  be  a  possible  duty 
in  such  a  contingency. 

But  that  even  his  father  had  doubts  and 
hesitations  was  proven  to  David  by  the 
contradictory  nature  of  his  advice  and 
charges.  Thus  on  the  morning  he  left 
Glasgow,  and  as  they  were  riding  together. 


1 8  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

to  the  Caledonian  station,  the  old  man  said, 
' '  Your  uncle  has  given  you  a  seat  in  his 
bank,  Davie,  and  you'll  mak'  room  for 
yoursel'  to  lie  down,  I'se  warrant.  But 
you'll  no  forget  that  when  a  guid  man 
thrives  a'  should  thrive  i'  him;  and  giving 
for  God's  sake  never  lessens  the  purse." 

' '  I  am  but  one  in  a  world  full,  father.  I 
hope  I  shall  never  forget  to  give  according 
to  my  prosperings." 

"Tak  the  world  as  it  is,  my  lad,  and  no' 
as  it  ought  to  be;  and  never  forget  that 
money  is  money's  brither — an'  you  put  two 
pennies  in  a  purse  they'll  creep  thegither. 

' '  But  then  Davie,  I  am  free  to  say  gold 
won't  buy  everything,  and  though  rich 
men  hae  long  hands,  they  won't  reach  to 
heaven.  So,  though  you'll  tak  guid  care 
o'  yoursel',  you  will  also  gie  to  God  the 
things  that  are  God's." 

* '  I  have  been  brought  up  in  the  fear  of 
God  and  the  love  of  mankind,  father.  It 
would  be  an  ill  thing  for  me  to  slink  out  of 
life  and  leave  the  world  no  better  for  my 
living." 

"God  bless  you,  lad;  and  the  ,£20,000 
will  be  to  the  fore  when  it  is  called  for,  and 
you  shall  make  it  ,£60,000,  and  I'll  see 
again  Ellenmount  in  the  Lockerby's  keep- 
ing. But  you'll  walk  in  the  ways  o'  your 
fathers,  and  gie  without  grudging  of  your 
increase. ' ' 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  19 

David  nodded  rather  impatiently.  He 
could  hardly  understand  the  struggle  going 
on  in  his  father's  heart — the  wish  to  say 
something  that  might  quiet  his  own  con- 
science, and  yet  not  make  David's  unneces- 
sarily tender.  It  is  hard  serving  God  and 
Mammon,  and  Andrew  Locker  by  was  mis- 
erable and  ashamed  that  morning  in  the 
service. 

And  yet  he  was  not  selfish  in  the  matter 
— that  much  in  his  favor  must  be  admitted. 
He  would  rather  have  had  the  fine,  hand- 
some lad  he  loved  so  dearly  going  in  and 
out  his  own  house.  He  could  have  taken 
great  interest  in  all  his  further  studies, 
and  very  great  pride  in  seeing  him  a  suc- 
cessful '  'placed  minister ;"  but  there  are  few 
Scotsmen  in  whom  pride  of  lineage  and 
the  good  of  the  family  does  not  strike  deeper 
than  individual  pleasure.  Andrew  really 
believed  that  David's  first  duty  was  to  the 
house  of  Lockerby. 

He  had  sacrificed  a  great  deal  toward  this 
end  all  his  own  life,  nor  were  his  sacrifices 
complete  with  the  resignation  of  his  only 
child  to  the  same  purpose.  To  a  man  of 
more  than  sixty  years  of  age  it  is  a  great 
trial  to  have  an  unusual  and  unhappy  at- 
mosphere in  his  home;  and  though  Mrs. 
Lockerby  was  now  tearful  and  patient  under 
her  disappointment,  everyone  knows  that 
tears  and  patience  may  be  a  miserable  kind 


20  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

of  comfort.  Then,  though  Janet  had  as  yet 
preserved  a  dour  and  angry  silence,  he 
knew  that  sooner  or  later  she  would  begin 
a  guerilla  warfare  of  sharp  words,  wrhich  he 
feared  he  would  have  mainly  to  bear,  for 
Janet,  though  his  housekeeper,  was  also 
"a  far-awa  cousin,"  had  been  forty  years 
in  his  house,  and  was  not  accustomed  to 
withhold  her  opinions  on  any  subject. 

Fortunately  for  Andrew  Lockerby,  Janet 
finally  selected  Mary  Moir  as  the  Eve 
specially  to  blame  in  this  transgression. 
"A  proud  up-head  lassie,"  she  asserted, 
"that  cam  o'  a  family  wha  would  sell  their 
share  o'  the  sunshine  for  pounds  sterling!' 

From  such  texts  as  this  the  two  women 
in  the  I^ockerby  house  preached  little  daily 
sermons  to  each  other,  until  comfort  grew 
out  of  the  very  stem  of  their  sorrow,  and 
they  began  to  congratulate  each  other  that 
"puir  Davie  was  at  ony  rate  outside  the 
glamour  o'  Mary  Moir's  temptations." 

"For  she  just  bewitched  the  laddie, "  said 
Janet,  angrily;  and,  doubtless,  if  the  old 
laws  regarding  witches  had  been  in  Janet's 
administration  it  would  have  gone  hardly 
with  pretty  Mary  Moir. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  21 

PART  II. 

"God's  work  is  soon  done. " 

It  is  a  weary  day  when  the  youth  first 
discovers  that  after  all  he  will  only  become 
a  man;  and  this  discovery  came  with  a  de- 
pressing weight  one  morning  to  David,  after 
he  had  been  counting  bank  notes  for  three 
hours.  It  was  noon,  but  the  gas  was  lit, 
and  in  the  heavy  air  a  dozen  men  sat  silent 
as  statues,  adding  up  figures  and  making 
entries.  He  thought  of  the  college  courts, 
and  the  college  green,  of  the  crowded  halls, 
and  the  symposia,  where  both  mind  and 
body  had  equal  refection.  There  had  been 
days  when  he  had  a  part  in  these  things, 
and  when  to  "strive  with  things  impos- 
sible, "  or  ' '  to  pluck  honor  from  the  pale- 
faced  moon,"  had  not  been  unreasonable  or 
rash ;  but  now  it  almost  seemed  as  if  Mr. 
Buckle's  dreary  gospel  was  a  reality,  and 
men  were  machines,  and  life  was  an  affair 
to  be  tabulated  in  averages. 

He  had  just  had  a  letter  from  Willie 
Caird,  too,  and  it  had  irritated  him.  The 
wounds  of  a  friend  may  be  faithful,  but 
they  are  not  always  welcome.  David  deter- 
mined to  drop  the  correspondence.  Willie 
was  going  one  way  and  he  another.  They 
might  never  see  each  other  again ;  and — 


22  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

If  they  should  meet  one  day, 
If  both  should  not  forget 
They  could  clasp  hands  the  accustomed  way. 

For  by  simply  going  with  the  current  in 
which  in  great  measure,  subject  yet  to  early 
influences,  he  found  himself,  David  Lock- 
erby  had  drifted  in  one  twelve  months  far 
enough  away  from  the  traditions  and  feel- 
ings of  his  home  and  native  land.  Not 
that  he  had  broken  loose  into  any  flagrant 
sin,  or  in  any  manner  cast  a  shadow  on  the 
perfect  respectability  of  his  name.  The  set 
in  which  Alexander  Gordon  and  his  nephew 
lived  sanctioned  nothing  of  the  kind.  They 
belonged  to  the  best  society,  and  were  of 
those  well-dressed,  well-behaved  people 
whom  Canon  Kingsley  described  as  "the 
sitters  in  pews." 

In  their  very  proper  company  David  had 
gone  to  ball  and  party,  to  opera  and  theatre. 
On  wet  Sundays  they  sat  together  in  St. 
George's  Church;  on  fine  Sundays  they  had 
sailed  quietly  down  the  Thames,  and  eaten 
their  dinner  at  Richmond.  Now,  sin  is  sin 
beyond  all  controversy,  but  there  were  none 
of  David's  companions  to  whom  these 
things  were  sins  in  the  same  degree  as  they 
were  to  David. 

To  none  of  them  had  the  holy  Sabbath 
ever  been  the  day  it  had  been  to  him ;  to 
none  of  them  was  it  so  richly  freighted  with 
memories  of  wonderful  sermons  and  solemn 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  23 

sacraments  that  were  foretastes  of  heaven. 
Coming  with  a  party  of  gentlemanly  fellows 
slowly  rowing  up  the  Thames  and  humming 
some  passionate  recitative  from  an  opera, 
he  alone  could  recall  the  charmful  stillness 
of  a  Scotch  Sabbath,  the  worshiping  crowds, 
and  the  evening  psalm  ascending  from  so 
many  thousand  hearthstones : 

O  God  of  Bethel,  by  whose  hand 
Thy  people  still  are  led. 

He  alone,  as  the  oars  kept  time  to 
"'aria"  or  "chorus,"  heard  above  the 
witching  melody  the  solemn  minor  of  "St. 
Mary's,"  or  the  tearful  tenderness  of 
4 '  Communion. ' ' 

To  most  of  his  companions  opera  and 
theatre  had  come  as  a  matter  of  course,  as 
a  part  of  their  daily  life  and  education. 
David  had  been  obliged  to  stifle  con- 
science, to  disobey  his  father's  counsels  and 
his  mother's  pleadings,  before  he  could 
enjoy  them.  He  had  had,  in  fact,  to  culti- 
vate a  taste  for  the  sin  before  the  sin  was 
pleasant  to  him ;  and  he  frankly  told  him- 
self that  night,  in  thinking  it  all  over,  that 
it  was  harder  work  getting  to  hell  than  to 
heaven. 

But  then  in  another  year  he  would  be- 
come a  partner,  marry  Mary,  and  begin  a 
new  life.  Suddenly  it  struck  him  with  a 
new  force  that  he  had  not  heard  from  Mary 


24  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

for  nearly  three  weeks.  A  fear  seized  him 
that  while  he  had  been  dancing  and  mak- 
ing merry  Mary  had  been  ill  and  suffering. 
He  was  amazed  at  his  own  heartlessness, 
for  surely  nothing  but  sickness  would  have 
made  Mary  forget  him. 

The  next  morning  as  he  went  to  the  bank 
he  posted  a  long  letter  to  her,  full  of  affec- 
tion and  contrition  and  rose-colored  pictures 
of  their  future  life.  He  had  risen  an  hour 
earlier  to  write  it,  and  he  did  not  fail  to 
notice  what  a  healthy  natural  pleasure  even 
this  small  effort  of  self-denial  gave  him. 
He  determined  that  he  would  that  very 
night  write  long  letters  to  his  mother  and 
Janet,  and  even  to  his  father.  "There 
was  a  good  deal  he  wanted  to  say  to  him 
about  money  matters,  and  his  marriage, 
and  fore-talk  always  saved  after-talk.  Be- 
sides it  would  keep  the  influence  of  the  old 
and  better  life  around  him  to  be  in  closer 
communion  with  it." 

Thus  thinking,  he  opened  the  door  of  his 
uncle's  private  room,  and  said  cheerily, 
' '  Good  morning,  uncle. ' ' 

' '  Good  morning,  Davie.  Your  father  is 
here." 

Then  Andrew  Lockerby  came  forward, 
and  his  son  met  him  with  outstretched 
hands  and  paling  cheeks.  ' '  What  is  it, 
father?  Mother?  Mary?  Is  she  dead?" 

"  'Deed,  no,  my  lad.     There's  naething 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  25 

wrang  but  will  turn  to  right.  Mary  Moir 
was  married  three  days  syne,  and  I  thocht 
you  wad  rather  hear  the  news  from  ane  that 
loved  you.  That's  a',  Davie;  and  indeed 
it's  a  loss  that's  a  great  gain." 

"Who  did  she  marry?" 

'  *  Just  a  bit  wizened  body  frae  the  East 
Indies,  a' most  as  yellow  as  his  gold,  an'  as 
auld  as  her  father.  But  the  Deacon  is 
greatly  set  up  wi'  the  match — or  the  settle- 
ments— and  Mary  comes  o'  a  gripping 
kind.  There's  her  brother  Gavin,  he'd  sell 
the  ears  aff  his  head,  an'  they  werena  fast- 
ened on. ' ' 

Then  David  went  away  with  his  father, 
and  after  half-an-hour's  talk  on  the  subject 
together  it  was  never  mentioned  more  be- 
tween them.  But  it  was  a  blow  that  killed 
effectually  all  David's  eager  yearnings  for 
a  loftier  and  purer  life.  And  it  not  only 
did  this,  but  it  also  caused  to  spring  up 
into  active  existence  a  passion  which  was 
to  rule  him  absolutely — a  passion  for  gold. 
L,ove  had  failed  him,  friendship  had  proved 
an  annoyance,  company,  music,  feasting, 
amusements  of  all  kinds  were  a  weariness 
now  to  think  of.  There  seemed  nothing 
better  for  him  than  to  become  a  rich  man. 

"I'll  buy  so  many  acres  of  old  Scotland 
and  call  them  by  the  Lockerby's  name;  and 
I'll  have  nobles  and  great  men  come  bow- 
ing and  becking  to  David  L,ockerby  as  they 


26  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

do  to  Alexander  Gordon.  Love  is  refused, 
and  wisdom  is  scorned,  but  everybody  is 
glad  to  take  money ;  then  money  is  best  of 
all  things. ' ' 

Thus  David  reasoned,  and  his  father  said 
nothing  against  his  arguments.  Indeed, 
they  had  never  understood  one  another  so 
well.  David,  for  the  first  time,  asked  all 
about  the  lands  of  Ellenmount,  and  pledged 
himself,  if  he  lived  and  prospered,  to  fulfill 
his  father's  hope.  Indeed,  Andrew  was 
altogether  so  pleased  with  his  son  that  he 
told  his  brother-in-law  that  the  ,£20,000 
would  be  forthcoming  as  soon  as  ever  he 
choose  to  advance  David  in  the  firm. 

"I  was  only  waiting,  Lockerby,  till 
Davie  got  through  wi'  his  playtime.  The 
lad's  myself  o'er  again,  an'  I  ken  weel  he'll 
ne'er  be  contented  until  he  settles  cannily 
doon  to  his  interest  tables." 

So  before  Andrew  Lockerby  went  back 
to  Glasgow  David  was  one  of  the  firm  of 
Gordon  &  Co.,  sat  in  the  directors'  room, 
and  began  to  feel  some  of  the  pleasant 
power  of  having  money  to  lend.  After 
this  he  was  rarely  seen  among  men  of  his 
own  age — women  he  never  mingled  with. 
He  removed  to  his  uncle's  stately  house  in 
Baker  street,  and  assimilated  his  life  very 
much  to  that  of  the  older  money  maker. 
Occasionally  he  took  a  run  northward  to 
Glasgow,  or  a  month's  vacation  on  the 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  27 

Continent,  but  nearly  all  such  journeys 
were  associated  with  some  profitable  loan 
or  investment.  People  began  to  speak  of 
him  as  a  most  admirable  young  man,  and 
indeed  in  some  respects  he  merited  the 
praise.  No  son  ever  more  affectionately 
honored  his  father  and  mother,  and  Janet 
>  had  been  made  an  independent  woman  by 
his  grateful,  consideration. 

He  was  so  admirable  that  he  ceased  to 
interest  people,  and  every  time  he  visited 
Glasgow  fewer  and  fewer  of  his  old  ac- 
quaintances came  to  see  him.  A  little  more 
than  ten  years  after  his  admission  to  the 
firm  of  Gordon  &  Co.  he  came  home  at  the 
new  year,  and  presented  his  father  with  the 
title-deeds  of  Ellenmount  and  Netherby. 
The  next  day  old  Andrew  was  welcomed 
on  the  City  Exchange  as  "Lockerby  of 
Ellenmount,  gentleman."  "I  hae  lived 
lang  enough  to  hae  seen  this  day,"  he  said, 
with  happy  tears;  and  David  felt  a  joy  in 
his  father's  joy  that  he  did  not  know  again 
for  many  years.  For  while  a  man  works 
for  another  there  is  an  ennobling  element 
in  his  labor,  but  when  he  works  simply  for 
himself  he  has  become  the  greatest  of  all 
slaves.  This  slavery  David  now  willingly 
assumed;  the  accumulation  of  money  be- 
came his  business,  his  pleasure,  the  sum  of 
his  daily  life. 

Ten  years  later  both  his  uncle  and  father 


28  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

were  dead,  and  both  had  left  David  every 
shilling  they  possessed.  Then  he  went  on 
working  more  eagerly  than  ever,  turning  his 
tens  of  thousands  into  hundreds  of  thousands 
and  adding  acre  to  acre,  and  farm  to  farm, 
until  Lockerby  was  the  richest  estate  in 
Annandale.  When  he  was  forty-five  years 
of  age  fortune  seemed  to  have  given  him 
every  good  gift  except  wife  and  children, 
and  his  mother,  who  had  nothing  else  to 
fret  about,  worried  Janet  continually  on  this 
subject. 

"Wife  an'  bairns,  indeed!"  said  Janet; 
"  vera  uncertain  comforts,  ma'am,  an'  vera 
certain  cares.  Our  Master  Davie  likes  aye 
to  be  sure  o'  his  bargains. ' ' 

"Weel,  Janet,  it's  a  great  cross  tome — 
an'  him  sae  honored,  an'  guid  an'  rich,  wil 
no  a  shilling  ill-saved  to  shame  him." 

"Tut,  tut,  ma'am!  The  river  doesna 
swell  wi'  clean  water.  Nae body's  charged 
him  wi'  wrangdoing  —  that's  enough. 
There's  nae  need  to  set  him  up  for  a 
saint. ' ' 

"An'  you  wanted  him  to  be  a  minister, 
Janet." 

1 '  I  was  that  blind — ance. ' ' 

"We  are  blind  creatures,  Janet." 

"Wi'  excepts,  ma'am;  but  they'll  ne'er 
be  found  amang  mithers.  ' : 

This  conversation  took  place  one  lovely 
Sabbath  evening,  and  just  at  the  same  time 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  29 

David  was  standing  thoughtfully  on  Princes 
street,  Edinburgh,  wondering  to  which 
church  he  had  better  turn  his  steps.  For  a 
sudden  crisis  in  the  affairs  of  a  bank  in 
that  city  had  brought  him  hurriedly  to 
Scotland,  and  he  was  not  only  a  prudent 
man  who  considered  public  opinion,  but 
was  also  in  a  mood  to  conciliate  that 
opinion  so  long  as  the  outward  conditions 
were  favorable.  Whatever  he  might  do  in 
London,  in  Scotland  he  always  went  to 
morning  and  evening  service. 

He  was  also  one  of  those  self-dependent 
men  who  dislike  to  ask  questions  or  advice 
from  anyone.  Though  a  comparative 
stranger  he  would  not  have  allowed  him- 
self to  think  that  anyone  could  direct  him 
better  than  he  could  choose  for  himself. 
He  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  and 
finally  followed  a  company  which  increased 
continually  until  they  entered  an  old  church 
in  the  Canongate. 

Its  plain  wooden  pews  and  old-fashioned 
elevated  pulpit  rather  pleased  than  offended 
David,  and  the  air  of  antiquity  about  the 
place  consecrated  it  in  his  eyes.  Men  like 
whatever  reminds  them  of  their  purest  and 
best  days,  and  David  had  been  once  in  the 
old  Relief  Church  on  the  Doo  Hill  in  Glas- 
gow— just  such  a  large,  bare,  solemn-looking 
house  of  worship.  The  still,  earnest  men 
and  women,  the  droning  of  the  precentor, 


30  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

the  antiquated  singing  pleased  and  soothed 
him.  He  did  not  notice  much  the  thin 
little  fair  man  who  conducted  the  services; 
for  he  was  holding  a  session  with  his  own 
soul. 

A  peculiar  movement  among  the  con- 
gregation announced  that  the  sermon  was 
beginning,  and  David,  looking  up,  saw  that 
the  officiating  minister  had  been  changed. 
This  man  was  swarthy  and  tall,  and  looked 
like  some  old  Jewish  prophet,  as  he  lifted 
his  rapt  face  and  cried,  like  one  crying  in 
the  wilderness,  " Friends!  I  have  a  ques- 
tion to  ask  you  to-night:  'What  shall  it 
profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and 
lose  his  own  soul?'  " 

For  twenty-three  years  David  had 
silenced  that  voice,  but  it  had  found  him 
out  again — it  was  Willie  Caird's.  At  first 
interested  and  curious,  David  soon  became 
profoundly  moved  as  Willie,  in  clear, 
solemn,  thrilling  sentences,  reasoned  of  life 
and  death  and  judgment  to  come.  Not 
that  he  followed  his  arguments,  or  wras  more 
than  dimly  conscious  of  the  moving  elo- 
quence that  stirred  the  crowd  as  a  mighty 
wind  stirs  the  trees  in  the  forest :  for  that 
dreadful  question  smote,  and  smote,  and 
smote  upon  his  heart  as  if  determined  to 
have  an  answer. 

What  shall  it  profit?  What  shall  it 
profit  ?  What  shall  it  profit  ?  David  was 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  31 

quick  enough  at  counting  material  loss  and 
profit,  but  here  was  a  question  beyond  his 
computation.  He  went  silently  out  of  the 
church,  and  wandered  away  by  Holyrood 
Palace  and  St.  Anthony's  Chapel  to  the 
pathless,  lonely  beauty  of  Salisbury  Crags. 
There  was  no  answer  in  nature  for  him. 
The  stars  were  silent  above,  the  earth  silent 
beneath.  Weariness  brought  him  no  rest; 
if  he  slept,  he  woke  with  the  start  of  a 
hunted  soul,  and  found  him  asking  that 
same  dreadful  question.  When  he  looked 
in  the  mirror  his  own  face  queried  of  him, 
"What  profit?"  and  he  was  compelled  to 
make  a  decided  effort  to  prevent  his  tongue 
uttering  the  ever  present  thought. 

But  at  noon  he  would  meet  the  defaulting 
bank  committee,  "and  doubtless  his  lawful 
business  would  take  its  proper  share  of  his 
thought!"  He  told  himself  that  it  was  the 
voice  and  face  of  his  old  friend  that  had 
affected  him  so  vividly,  and  that  if  he  went 
and  chatted  over  old  times  with  Willie,  he 
would  get  rid  of  the  disagreeable  influence. 

The  influence,  however,  went  with  him 
into  the  creditors'  committee  room.  The 
embarrassed  officials  had  dreaded  greatly 
the  interview.  No  one  hoped  for  more 
than  bare  justice  from  David  L,ockerby. 
"Clemency,  help,  sympathy!  You'll  get 
blood  out  o'  a  stane  first,  gentlemen,"  said 
the  old  cashier,  with  a  dour,  hopeless  face. 


32  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

And  yet  that  morning  David  Lockerby 
amazed  no  one  so  much  as  himself.  He 
went  to  the  meeting  quite  determined  to 
have  his  own — only  his  own — but  some- 
thing asked  him,  "What  shall it  profit '?" 
and  he  gave  up  his  lawful  increase  and 
even  offered  help.  He  went  determined  to 
speak  his  mind  very  plainly  about  mis- 
management and  the  folly  of  having  losses; 
and  something  asked  him,  * '  What  shall  it 
profit  ?' '  and  he  gave  such  sympathy  with 
nis  itelp  that  the  money  came  with  a  bless- 
ing in  its  hand. 

The  feeling  of  satisfaction  was  so  new  to 
him  that  it  embarrassed  and  almost  made 
him  ashamed.  He  slipped  ungraciously 
away  from  the  thanks  that  ought  to  have 
been  pleasant,  and  found  himself,  almost 
unconsciously,  looking  up  Willie's  name  in 
the  clerical  directory,  "Dr.  William  Caird, 
22  Moray  place."  David  knew  enough  of 
Edinburgh  to  know  that  Moray  place  con- 
tained the  handsomest  residences  in  the 
city,  and  therefore  he  was  not  astonished 
at  the  richness  and  splendor  of  Willie's 
library ;  but  he  was  astonished  to  see  him 
surrounded  by  five  beautiful  boys  and  girls, 
and  evidently  as  much  interested  in  their 
lessons  and  sports  as  if  he  was  one  of  them. 

"Ech!  Davieman!  but  I'm  glad  to  see 
you!"  That  was  all  of  Willie's  greeting, 
but  his  eyes  filled,  and  as  the  friends  held 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  33 

each  other's  hands  Davie  came  very  near 
touching  for  a  moment  a  David  L,ockerby 
no  one  had  seen  for  many  long  years.  But 
he  said  nothing  during  his  visit  of  Willie's 
sermon,  nor  indeed  in  several  subsequent 
ones.  Scotsmen  are  reticent  on  all  matters, 
and  especially  reticent  about  spiritual  ex- 
perience; and  though  Davie  lingered  in 
Edinburgh  a  week,  he  was  neither  able  to 
speak  to  Willie  about  his  soul,  nor  yet  in  all 
their  conversations  get  rid  of  that  haunt- 
ing, uncomfortable  influence  Willie  had 
raised. 

But  as  they  stood  before  the  Queen's 
Hotel  at  midnight  bidding  each  other  an 
affectionate  farewell,  David  suddenly  turned 
Willie  round  and  opened  up  his  whole 
heart  to  him.  And  as  he  talked  he  found 
himself  able  to  define  what  had  been  only 
hitherto  a  vague,  restless  sense  of  want. 

' '  I  am  the  poorest  rich  man  and  the  most 
miserable  failure,  Willie  Caird,  that  ever 
you  asked  yon  fearsome  question  of — and  I 
know  it.  I  have  achieved  millions,  and  I 
am  a  conscious  bankrupt  to  my  own  soul. 
I  have  wasted  my  youth,  neglected  my 
talents  and  opportunities,  and  whatever  the 
world  may  call  me  I  am  a  wretched  break- 
down. I  have  made  money — plenty  of  it — 
and  it  does  not  pay  me.  What  am  I  to 
do?" 

"You  ken,  Davie,  my  dear,  dear  lad,  what 


34  Winter  Evening  J^ales. 

advice  the  Lord  Jesus  gave  to  the  rich  man 
— 'distribute  unto  the  poor — and  come,  fol- 
low me!'" 

Then  up  and  down  Princes  street,  and 
away  under  the  shadow  of  the  Castle  Hill, 
Willie  and  David  walked  and  talked,  till 
the  first  sunbeams  touched  St.  Leonard's 
Crags.  If  it  was  a  long  walk  a  grand  work 
was  laid  out  in  it. 

"You  shall  be  more  blessed  than  your 
namesake,"  said  Willie,  "for  though 
David  gathered  the  gold,  and  the  wood, 
and  the  stone,  Solomon  builded  therewith. 
Now,  an'  it  please  God,  you  shall  do  your 
ain  work,  and  see  the  topstone  brought  on 
with  rejoicing." 

Then  at  David's  command,  workmen 
gathered  in  companies,  and  some  of  the 
worst  "vennels"  in  old  Glasgow  were 
torn  down;  and  the  sunshine  flooded 
"wynds"  it  had  scarcely  touched  for  cen- 
turies, and  a  noble  building  arose  that  was 
to  be  a  home  for  children  that  had  no 
home.  And  the  farms  of  Kllenmount  fed 
them,  and  the  fleeces  of  Locker  by  clothed 
them,  and  into  every  young  hand  was  put 
a  trade  that  would  win  it  honest  bread. 

In  a  short  time  even  this  undertaking 
began  to  be  too  small  for  David's  energies 
and  resources,  and  he  joined  hands  with 
Willie  in  many  other  good  works,  and  gave 
not  only  freely  of  his  gold,  but  also  of  his 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  35 

time  and  labor.  The  old  eloquence  that 
stirred  his  classmates  in  St.  Andrew's  Hall 
"till  they  would  have  followed  him  to  the 
equator"  began  to  stir  the  cautious  Glas- 
gow traders  to  the  bottom  of  their  hearts 
and  their  pock etbooks;  and  men  who  didn't 
want  to  help  in  a  crusade  against  drunken- 
ness, or  in  a  crusade  for  the  spread  of  the 
Gospel,  stopped  away  from  Glasgow  City 
Hall  when  David  L,ockerby  filled  the  chair 
at  a  public  meeting  and  started  a  subscrip- 
tion list  with  ^1000  down  on  the  table. 

But  there  were  two  old  ladies  that  never 
stopped  away,  though  one  of  them  always 
declared  "Master  Davie  had  fleeched  her 
last  bawbee  out  o'  her  pouch;"  and  the 
other  generally  had  her  little  whimper 
about  Davie  "waring  his  substance  upon 
ither  folks'  bairns." 

"There's  bonnie  Bessie  Lament,  Janet; 
an'  he  would  marry  her  we  might  live  to 
see  his  ain  sons  and  daughters  in  the  old 
house. ' ' 

"  'Deed,  then,  ma'am,  our  Davie  has 
gotten  him  a  name  better  than  that  o'  sons 
an'  dochters;  and  though  I  am  sair  disap- 
pointed in  him — " 

"You  shouldn't  say  that,  Janet;  he  made 
a  gran'  speech  the  day." 

"A  speech  isna  a  sermon,  ma'am;  though 
I'll  ne'er  belittle  a  speech  wi'  a  ^1000 
argument. ' ' 


36  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"And  there  was  Deacon  Moir,  Janet, 
who  didna  approve  o'  the  scheme,  and  who 
would  therefore  gie  nothing  at  a'." 

"The  Deacon  is  sae  godly  that  God 
doesna  get  a  chance  to  improve  his  condi- 
tion, ma'am.  But  for  a'  o'  Deacon  Moir's 
disapproval  I'se  count  on  the  good  work 
going  on.'' 

"  'Deed  yes,  Janet,  and  though  our  Davie 
should  ne'er  marry  at  a'  — " 

4 'There '11  be  generations  o'  lads  an' 
lasses,  ma'am,  that  will  rise  up  in  auld 
Scotland  an'  go  up  an'  down  through  a'  the 
warld  a'  ca'  David  I^ockerby  *  blessed.'  " 


Winter  Evening  J^ales.  37 


FRANZ  MULLER'S  WIFE. 

' '  Franz,  good  morning.  Whose  philoso- 
phy is  it  now?  Hegel,  Spinosa,  Kant  or 
Dugald  Stewart?" 

"None  of  them.     I  am  reading  Faust. " 

'  *  Worse  and  worse.  Better  wrestle  with 
philosophies  than  lose  yourself  in  the 
clouds.  At  any  rate,  if  the  poets  are  to 
send  the  philosophers  to  the  right  about, 
stick  to  Shakespeare. ' ' 

' '  He  is  too  material.  He  can't  get  rid  of 
men  and  women." 

"They  are  a  little  better,  I  should  thitiK, 
than  Mephisto.  Come,  Franz,  condescend 
to  cravats  and  kid  gloves,  and  let  us  go  and 
see  my  cousin  Christine  Stromberg. ' ' 

1 '  I  do  not  know  the  young  lady. ' ' 

"Of  course  not.  She  has  just  returned 
from  a  Munich  school.  Her  brother  Max 
was  at  the  L,yndons'  great  party,  you  re- 
member?" 

"I  don't  remember,  Louis.  In  white 
cravats  and  black  coats  all  men  look  alike. ' ' 

"But  you  will  go?" 

"If  you  wish  it,  yes.  There  are  some 
uncut  reviews  on  the  table :  amuse  yourself 
while  I  dress." 


38  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"Thanks,  I  have  my  cigar  case.  I  will 
take  a  smoke  and  think  of  Christine." 

For  some  reason  quite  beyond  analysis, 
Franz  did  not  like  this  speech.  He  had 
never  seen  Christine  Stromberg,  but  yet  he 
half  resented  the  careless  use  of  her  name. 
It  fell  upon  some  soul  consciousness  like  a 
familiar  and  personal  name,  and  yet  he 
vainly  recalled  every  phase  of  his  life  for 
any  clew  to  this  familiarity. 

He  was  a  handsome  fellow,  with  large, 
clearly-cut  features  and  gray,  thoughtful 
eyes.  In  a  conversation  that  interested 
him  his  face  lighted  up  with  a  singularly 
beautiful  animation,  but  usually  it  was  as 
still  and  passionless  as  if  the  soul  was  away 
on  a  dream  or  a  visit.  Even  the  regulation 
cravat  and  coat  could  not  destroy  his  in- 
dividuality, and  Louis  looked  admiringly  at 
him,  and  said,  "You  are  still  Franz  Miiller. 
No  one  is  just  like  3'ou.  I  should  think 
Cousin  Christine  will  fall  in  love  with  you. ' ' 

Again  Franz's  heart  resented  this  speech. 
It  had  been  waiting  for  love  for  many  a 
year,  but  he  could  not  jest  or  speculate 
about  it.  No  one  but  the  thoughtless, 
favored  Louis  ever  dared  to  do  it  before 
Franz,  and  no  one  ever  spoke  lightly  of 
women  before  him,  for  the  worst  of  men 
are  sensitive  to  the  presence  of  a  pure  and 
lofty  nature,  and  are  generally  willing  to 
respect  it. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  39 

Franz  dreamed  of  women,  but  only  of 
noble  women,  and  even  for  those  who  fell 
below  his  ideal  he  had  a  thousand  apologies 
and  a  world  of  pity.  It  was  strange  that 
such  a  man  should  have  lived  thirty  years, 
and  never  have  really  loved  any  mortal 
woman.  But  his  hour  had  come  at  last. 
As  soon  as  he  saw  Christine  Stromberg  he 
loved  her.  A  strange  exaltation  possessed 
him ;  his  face  was  radiant ;  he  talked  and 
sung  with  a  brilliancy  that  amazed  even 
those  most  familiar  with  his  rare  exhibi- 
tions of  such  moods.  And  Christine  seemed 
fascinated  by  his  beauty  and  wit.  The 
hours  passed  like  moments ;  and  when  the 
girl  stood  watching  him  down  the  moon-lit 
avenue,  she  almost  trembled  to  remember 
what  questions  Franz's  eyes  had  asked  her 
and  how  strangely  familiar  the  clasp  of  his 
hand  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  had  seemed 
to  her. 

"I  wonder  where  I  have  seen  him  be- 
fore," she  murmured — "I  wonder  where  it 
was?'*  and  to  this  thought  she  slowly  took 
off  one  by  one  her  jewels,  and  brushed  out 
her  long  black  hair;  nay,  when  she  fell 
asleep,  it  was  only  to  take  it  up  again  in 
dreams. 

As  for  Franz,  he  was  in  far  too  ecstatic  a 
mood  to  think  of  sleep.  "One  has  too  few 
of  such  godlike  moments  to  steep  them  in 
unconsciousness, ' '  he  said  to  himself.  And 


4<D  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

so  he  sat  smoking  and  thinking  and  watch- 
ing the  waning  moon  sink  lower  and  lower, 
until  it  was  no  longer  night,  but  dawning  day. 

"In  a  few  hours  now  I  can  go  and  see 
Christine."  At  this  point  in  his  love  he 
had  no  other  thought.  He  was  too  happy 
to  speculate  on  any  probability  as  yet.  It 
was  sufficient  at  present  to  know  that  he 
had  found  his  love,  that  she  lived  at  a  de- 
finite number  on  a  definite  avenue,  and  that 
in  six  or  seven  hours  more  he  might  see 
her  again. 

He  chose  the  earlier  number.  It  was 
just  eleven  o'clock  when  he  rung  Mr. 
Stromberg's  bell.  Mrs.  Stromberg  passed 
through  the  hall  as  he  entered,  and  greeted 
him  pleasantly.  "Christine  and  I  are  just 
going  to  have  breakfast,"  she  said,  in  her 
jolly,  hearty  way.  ''Come  in  Mr.  Miiller, 
and  have  a  cup  of  coffee  with  us. ' ' 

Nothing  could  have  delighted  Franz  so 
much.  Christine  was  pouring  it  out  as  he 
entered  the  pretty  breakfast  parlor.  How 
beautiful  she  looked  in  her  long  loose 
morning  dress!  How  bewitching  were  its 
numerous  bows  of  pale  ribbon !  He  had  a 
sense  of  hunger  immediately,  and  he  knew 
that  he  made  an  excellent  breakfast:  but 
of  what  he  ate  or  what  he  drank  he  had 
not  the  slightest  conception. 

A  cup  of  coffee  passing  through  Chris- 
tine's hands  necessarily  suffered  some 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  41 

wonderful  change.  It  could  not,  and  it  did 
not,  taste  like  ordinary  coffee.  In  the  same 
mysterious  way  chicken,  eggs  and  rolls  be- 
came sublimated.  So  they  ate  and  laughed 
and  chatted,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  Mil- 
ton never  imagined  a  meal  in  Eden  half  so 
delightful  as  that  breakfast  on  the  avenue. 

When  it  was  over,  it  came  into  Franz's 
heart  to  offer  Christine  a  ride.  They  were 
standing  together  among  the  flowers  in  the 
bay  window,  and  the  trees  outside  were  in 
their  first  tender  green,  and  the  spring 
skies  and  the  spring  airs  were  full  of  hap- 
piness and  hope.  Christine  was  arranging 
and  watering  her  lilies  and  pansies,  and 
somehow  in  helping  her  Franz's  hands  and 
hers  had  lingered  happily  together.  So 
now  love  gave  to  this  mortal  an  immortal's 
confidence.  He  never  thought  of  sighing 
and  fearing  and  trembling.  His  soul  had 
claimed  Christine,  and  he  firmly  believed 
that  sooner  or  later  she  would  hear  and 
understand  what  he  had  to  say  to  her. 

"Shall  we  ride?"  he  said,  just  touching 
her  fingers,  and  looking  at  her  with  eyes 
and  face  glowing  with  a  wonderful  happi- 
ness. 

Alas,  Christine  could  think  of  mamma, 
and  of  morning  calls  and  of  what  people 
would  say.  But  Franz  overruled  every 
scruple;  he  conquered  mamma,  and  laughed 
at  society;  and  before  Christine  had 


42  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

decided  which  of  her  costumes  was  most 
becoming,  Franz  was  waiting  at  the  door. 

How  they  rattled  up  the  avenue  and 
through  the  park!  How  the  green 
branches  waved  in  triumph,  and  how  the 
birds  sang  and  gossiped  about  them!  By 
the  time  they  arrived  at  Mount  St.  Vincent 
they  had  forgotten  they  were  mortal.  Then 
the  rest  in  the  shady  gallery,  and  the  sub- 
sidence of  love's  exaltation  into  love's 
silent  tender  melancholy,  were  just  as  bliss- 
ful. 

They  came  slowly  home,  speaking  only 
in  glances  and  monosyllables,  but  just  be- 
fore they  parted  Franz  said,  ' '  I  have  been 
waiting  thirty  years  for  you,  Christine; 
to-day  my  life  has  blossomed. ' ' 

And  though  Christine  did  not  make  any 
audible  answer,  he  thought  her  blush  suffi- 
cient ;  besides,  she  took  the  lilies  from  her 
throat  and  gave  them  to  him. 

Such  a  dream  of  love  is  given  only  to  the 
few  whom  the  gods  favor.  Franz  must 
have  stood  high  in  their  grace,  for  it  lasted 
through  many  sweet  weeks  and  months  for 
him.  He  followed  the  Strombergs  to 
Newport,  and  laid  his  whole  life  down  at 
Christine's  feet.  There  was  no  definite 
engagement  between  them,  but  every  one 
understood  that  would  come  as  surely  as 
the  end  of  the  season. 

Money  matters  and  housekeeping  must 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  43 

eventually  intrude  themselves,  but  the 
romance  and  charm  of  this  one  summer  of 
life  should  be  untouched.  And  Franz  was 
not  anxious  at  all  on  this  score.  His 
father,  a  shrewd  business  man,  had  early 
seen  that  his  son  was  a  poet  and  a  dreamer. 
"It  is  not  the  boy's  fault,"  he  said  to  his 
partner,  "he  gets  it  from  his  grandfather, 
who  was  always  more  out  of  this  world 
than  in  it." 

So  he  wisely  allowed  Franz  to  follow  his 
natural  tastes,  and  contented  himself  with 
carefully  investing  his  fortune  in  such  real 
estate  and  securities  as  he  believed  would 
insure  a  safe,  if  a  slow  increase.  He  had 
bought  wisely,  and  Franz's  income  was  a 
certain  and  handsome  one,  with  a  tendency 
rather  to  increase  than  decrease,  and  quite 
sufficient  to  maintain  Christine  in  all  the 
luxury  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed. 

So  when  he  returned  to  the  city  he  in- 
tended to  speak  to  Mr.  Stromberg.  All  he 
had  should  be  Christine's  and  her  father 
should  settle  the  matter  just  as  he  thought 
best  for  his  daughter.  In  a  general  way 
this  was  understood  by  all  parties,  and 
everyone  seemed  inclined  to  sympathize 
with  the  happy  feeling  which  led  the  lovers 
to  deprecate  during  these  enchanted  days 
any  allusion  which  tended  to  dispel  the  ex- 
quisite charm  of  their  young  lives'  idyl. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  if  they 


44  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

had  remembered  the  ancient  superstition 
and  themselves  done  something  to  mar  their 
perfect  happiness.  Poly  crates  offered  his 
ring  to  avert  the  calamity  sure  to  follow 
unmitigated  pleasure  or  success,  and  Franz 
ought,  perhaps,  to  have  also  made  an  effort 
to  propitiate  his  envious  Fate. 

But  he  did  not,  and  toward  the  very  end 
of  the  season,  when  the  October  days  had 
thrown  a  kind  of  still  melancholy  over  the 
world  that  had  been  so  green  and  gay, 
Franz's  dream  was  rudely  broken — broken 
by  a  Mr.  James  Barker  Clarke,  a  bluster- 
ing, vulgar  man  of  fifty,  worth  three  mil- 
lions. In  some  way  or  other  he  seemed  to 
have  a  great  deal  of  influence  over  Mr. 
Stromberg,  who  paid  him  unqualified  re- 
spect, and  over  Mrs.  Stromberg,  who  seemed 
to  fear  him. 

Mr.  Stromberg's  "private  ledger"  alone 
knew  the  whole  secret ;  for  of  course  money 
was  at  the  foundation.  Indeed,  in  these 
days,  in  all  public  and  private  troubles,  it 
is  proper  to  ask,  not  "Who  is  she?"  but 
"How  much  is  it?"  Franz  Miiller  and 
James  Barker  Clarke  hated  each  other  on 
sight.  Still  Franz  had  no  idea  at  first  that 
this  ugly,  uncouth  man  could  ever  be  a 
rival  to  his  own  handsome  person  and  pas- 
sionate affection. 

In  a  few  days,  however,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  actually  consider  the  possibility  of 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  45 

such  a  thing.  Mr.  Stromberg  had  assumed 
an  attitude  of  such  extreme  politeness,  and 
Mrs.  Stromberg  avoided  him  if  possible, 
and  if  not  possible,  was  constrained  and 
unhappy  in  the  familiar  relations  that  she 
had  accepted  so  happily  all  summer.  As 
for  Christine,  she  had  constant  headaches, 
and  her  eyes  were  often  swollen  and  red 
with  weeping. 

At  length,  without  notice,  the  family  left 
Newport,  and  went  to  stay  a  month  with 
some  relative  near  Boston.  A  pitiful  little 
note  from  Christine  informed  him  of  this 
fact ;  but  as  he  received  no  information  as 
to  the  locality  of  her  relative's  house,  and 
no  invitation  to  call,  he  was  compelled  for 
the  present  to  do  as  Christine  asked  him — 
wait  patiently  for  their  return. 

At  first  he  got  a  few  short  tender  notes, 
but  they  were  evidently  written  in  such 
sorrow  that  he  was  almost  beside  himself 
with  grief  and  anger.  When  these  ceased 
he  went  to  Boston,  and  without  difficulty 
found  the  house  where  Christine  was  stay- 
ing. He  was  received  at  first  very  shyly 
by  Mrs.  Stromberg,  but  when  Franz  poured 
out  his  love  and  misery,  the  poor  old  lady 
wept  bitterly,  and  moaned  out  that  she 
could  not  help  it,  and  Christine  could  not 
help  it,  and  that  they  were  all  very  miser- 
able. 

Finally  she  was  persuaded  to  let  him  see 


46  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Christine,  "just  for  five  minutes."  The 
poor  girl  came  to  him,  a  shadow  of  her  gay 
self,  and,  weeping  in  his  arms,  told  him  he 
must  bid  her  good-by  forever.  The  five 
minutes  were  lengthened  into  a  long,  ter- 
rible hour,  and  Franz  went  back  to  New 
York  with  the  knowledge  that  in  that  hour 
his  life  had  been  broken  in  two  for  this  life. 

One  night  toward  the  close  of  November 
his  friend  Louis  called.  "Franz,"  he  said, 
"have  you  heard  that  Christine  Stromberg 
is  to  marry  old  Clarke  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"No  one  can  trust  a  woman.  It  is  a 
shame  of  Christine. ' ' 

"Louis,  speak  of  what  you  know.  Chris- 
tine is  an  angel.  If  a  woman  appears  to 
do  wrong,  there  is  probably  some  brute  of 
a  man  behind  her  forcing  her  to  do  it." 

"I  thought  she  was  to  be  your  wife." 

"She  is  my  wife  in  soul  and  feeling.  No 
one,  thank  God,  can  help  that.  If  I  was 
Clarke,  I  would  as  willingly  marry  a  corpse 
as  Christine  Stromberg.  Do  not  speak  of 
her  again,  Louis.  The  poor  innocent  child ! 
God  bless  her!"  And  he  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion of  weeping  that  alarmed  his  friend  for 
his  reason,  but  which  was  probably  its  sal- 
vation. 

In  a  week  Franz  had  left  for  Europe, 
and  the  next  Christmas,  Christine  and 
James  Barker  Clarke  were  married,  and 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  47 

began  housekeeping  in  a  style  of  extrav- 
agant splendor.  People  wondered  and 
exclaimed  at  Christine's  reckless  expendi- 
ture, her  parents  advised,  her  husband 
scolded;  but  though  she  never  disputed 
them,  she  quietly  ignored  all  their  sugges- 
tions. She  went  to  Paris,  and  lived  like  a 
princess;  Rome,  Vienna  and  London  won- 
dered over  her  beauty  and  her  splendor; 
and  wherever  she  went  Franz  followed  her 
quietly,  haunting  her  magnificent  salons 
like  a  wretched  spectre. 

They  rarely  or  never  spoke.  Beyond  a 
grave  inclination  of  the  head,  or  a  look 
whose  profound  misery  he  only  under- 
stood, she  gave  him  no  recognition.  The 
world  held  her  name  above  reproach,  and 
considered  that  she  had  done  very  well  to 
herself. 

Ten  years  passed  away,  but  the  changes 
they  brought  were  such  as  the  world  re- 
gards as  natural  and  inevitable.  Christine's 
mother  died  and  her  father  married  again ; 
and  Christine  had  a  son  and  a  daughter. 
Franz  watched  anxiously  to  see  if  this 
new  love  would  break  up  the  icy  coldness 
of  her  manners.  Sometimes  he  was  con- 
scious of  feeling  angrily  jealous  of  the  chil- 
dren, but  he  always  crushed  down  the 
wretched  passion.  "If  Christine  loved  a 
flower,  would  I  not  love  it  also?"  he  asked 
himself ;  ' '  and  these  little  ones,  what  have 


48  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

they  done  ? "  So  at  last  he  got  to  separate 
them  entirely  from  every  one  but  Christine, 
and  to  regard  them  as  part  and  portion  of 
his  love. 

But  at  the  end  of  ten  years  a  change 
came,  neither  natural  nor  expected.  Franz 
was  walking  moodily  about  his  library  one 
night,  when  Louis  came  to  tell  him  of  it. 
Louis  was  no  longer  young,  and  was  mar- 
ried now,  for  he  had  found  out  that  the 
beaten  track  is  the  safest. 

"Franz,"  he  said,  "have  you  heard 
about  Clarke?  His  affairs  are  frightfully 
wrong,  and  he  shot  himself  an  hour  ago." 

"And  Christine?  Does  she  know?  Who 
has  gone  to  her?" 

"My  wife  is  with  her.  Clarke  shot  him- 
self in  his  own  room.  Christine  was  the 
first  to  reach  him.  He  left  a  letter  saying 
he  was  absolutely  ruined. ' ' 

"Where  will  Christine  and  the  children 
go?" 

"I  suppose  to  her  father's.  Not  a  pleas- 
ant place  for  her  now.  Christine's  step- 
mother dislikes  both  her  and  the  children. ' ' 

Franz  said  no  more,  and  Louis  went  away 
with  a  feeling  of  disappointment.  "I 
thought  he  would  have  done  something  for 
her,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "Poor  Christine 
will  be  very  poor  and  dependent. ' ' 

Ten  days  after  he  came  home  with  a 
different  story.  "There  never  was  a 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  49 

woman  as  lucky  about  money  as  Cousin 
Christine,"  he  said.  "Hardy  &  Hall  sent 
her  notice  to-day  that  the  property  at  Rye- 
beach  settled  on  her  before  her  marriage 
by  Mr.  Clarke  was  now  at  her  disposal.  It 
seems  the  old  gentleman  anticipated  the 
result  of  his  wild  speculations,  and  in  order 
to  provide  for  his  wife,  quietly  bought  and 
placed  in  Hardy's  charge  two  beautifully 
furnished  cottages.  There  is  something 
like  an  accumulation  of  sixteen  thousand 
dollars  of  rentage;  and  as  one  is  luckily 
empty,  Christine  and  the  children  are  going 
there  at  once.  I  always  thought  the  prop- 
erty was  Hardy's  own  before.  Very 
thoughtful  in  Clarke." 

"It  is  not  Clarke  one  bit.  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  ever  did  it.  It  is  some  arrange- 
ment of  Franz  Muller's." 

"For  goodness'  sake  don't  hint  such  a 
thing,  Lizzie!  Christine  would  not  go, 
and  we  should  have  her  here  very  soon. 
Besides,  I  don't  believe  it.  Franz  took  the 
news  very  coolly,  and  he  has  kept  out  of 
my  way  since. " 

The  next  day  Louis  was  more  than  ever 
of  his  wife's  opinion.  "What  do  you 
think,  Lizzie?"  he  said.  "Franz  came  to 
me  to-day  and  asked  if  Clarke  did  not  once 
loan  me  two  thousand  dollars.  I  told  him 
Clarke  gave  me  two  thousand  about  the 
time  we  were  married. ' ' 


50  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"  'Say  loaned,  Louis, 'he  answered,  'to 
oblige  me.  Here  is  two  thousand  and  the 
interest  for  six  years.  Go  and  pay  it  to 
Christine;  she  must  need  money.'  So  I 
went. ' ' 

' '  Is  she  settled  comfortably  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh,  very.  Go  and  see  her  often.  Franz 
is  sure  to  marry  her,  and  he  is  growing 
richer  every  day." 

It  seemed  as  if  Louis's  prediction  would 
come  true.  Franz  began  to  drive  out  every 
afternoon  to  Ryebeach.  At  first  he  con- 
tented himself  with  just  passing  Christine's 
gate.  But  he  soon  began  to  stop  for  the 
children,  and  having  taken  them  a  drive, 
to  rest  awhile  on  the  lawn,  or  in  the  parlor, 
while  Christine  made  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

For  Franz  tired  very  easily  now,  and 
Christine  saw  what  few  others  noticed :  he 
had  become  pale  and  emaciated,  and  the 
least  exertion  left  him  weary  and  breath- 
less. She  knew  in  her  heart  that  it  was 
the  last  summer  he  would  be  with  her. 
Alas !  what  a  pitiful  shadow  of  their  first 
one!  It  was  hard  to  contrast  the  ardent, 
handsome  lover  of  ten  years  ago  with  the 
white,  silently  happy  man  who,  when  Octo- 
ber came,  had  only  strength  to  sit  and  hold 
her  hand,  and  gaze  with  eager,  loving  eyes 
into  her  face. 

One  day  his  physician  met  Louis  on 
Broadway.  '  *  Mr.  Curtin, ' '  he  said,  ' '  your 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  51 

friend  Miiller  is  very  ill.  I  consider  his 
life  measured  by  days,  perhaps  hours.  He 
has  long  had  organic  disease  of  the  heart. 
It  is  near  the  last. ' ' 

"Does  he  know  it?" 

' '  Yes,  he  has  known  it  long.  Better  see 
him  at  once." 

So  Louis  went  at  once.  He  found  Franz 
calmly  making  his  last  preparations  for  the 
great  event.  "I  am  glad  you  are  come, 
Louis, ' '  he  said ;  ' '  I  was  going  to  send  for 
you.  See  this  cabinet  full  of  letters.  I 
have  not  strength  left  to  destroy  them; 
burn  them  for  me  when — when  I  am  gone. 

"This  small  packet  is  Christine's  dear 
little  notes :  bury  them  with  me :  there  are 
ten  of  them,  every  one  ten  years  old. ' ' 

' ' Is  that  all,  dear  Franz?" 

"  Yes;  my  will  has  long  been  made.  Ex- 
cept a  legacy  to  yourself,  all  goes  to  Chris- 
tine— dear,  dear  Christine !' ' 

"You  love  her  yet,  then,  Franz?" 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  have  loved  her  for 
ages.  I  shall  love  her  forever.  She  is  the 
other  half  of  my  soul.  In  some  lives  I  have 
missed  her  altogether  let  me  be  thankful 
that  she  has  come  so  near  me  in  this  one. ' ' 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying, 
Franz  ? ' * 

' '  Very  clearly,  Louis.  I  have  always 
believed  with  the  oldest  philosophers  that 
souls  were  created  in  pairs,  and  that  it  is 


52  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

permitted  them  in  their  toilsome  journey 
back  to  purity  and  heaven  sometimes  to 
meet  and  comfort  each  other.  Do  you 
think  I  saw  Christine  for  the  first  time  in 
your  uncle's  parlor?  Louis,  I  have  fairer 
and  grander  memories  of  her  than  any 
linked  to  this  life.  I  must  leave  her  now 
for  a  little.  God  knows  when  and  where 
we  meet  again ;  but  He  does  know  ;  that  is 
my  hope  and  consolation. ' ' 

Whatever  were  Louis's  private  opinions 
about  Franz's  theology  it  was  impossible  to 
dissent  at  that  hour,  and  he  took  his 
friend's  last  instructions  and  farewell  with 
such  gentle,  solemn  feelings  as  had  long 
been  strange  to  his  heart. 

In  the  afternoon  Franz  was  driven  out  to 
Christine's.  It  was  the  last. physical  eifort 
he  was  capable  of.  No  one  saw  the  part- 
ing of  those  two  souls.  He  went  with 
Christine's  arms  around  him,  and  her  lips 
whispering  tender,  hopeful  farewells.  It 
was  noticed  however,  that  after  Franz's 
death  a  strange  change  came  over  Christine 
-  ~a  beautiful  nobility  and  calmness  of  char- 
acter, and  a  gentle  setting  of  her  life  to  the 
loftiest  aims. 

Louis  said  she  had  been  wonderfully 
moved  by  the  papers  Franz  left.  The  ten 
letters  she  had  written  during  the  spring- 
time of  their  love  went  to  the  grave  writh 
him,  but  the  rest  were  of  such  an 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  53 

extraordinary  nature  that  Louis  could  not 
refrain  from  showing  them  to  his  cousin, 
and  then  at  her  request  leaving  them  for  her 
to  dispose  of.  They  were  indeed  letters 
written  to  herself  under  every  circumstance 
of  her  life,  and  directed  to  every  place  in 
which  she  had  sojourned.  In  all  of  them 
she  was  addressed  as  "Beloved  Wife  of  my 
Soul,"  and  in  this  way  the  poor  fellow  had 
consoled  his  breaking,  longing  heart. 

To  some  of  them  he  had  written  imagin  - 
ary  answers,  but  as  these  all  referred  to  a 
financial  secret  known  only  to  the  parties 
concerned  in  Christine's  and  his  own  sacri- 
fice, it  was  proof  positive  that  he  had  writ- 
ten only  for  his  own  comfort.  But  it  was 
perhaps  well  they  fell  into  Christine's 
hands :  she  could  not  but  be  a  better  woman 
for  reading  the  simple  records  of  a  strife 
which  set  perfect  unselfishness  and  child- 
like submission  as  the  goal  of  its  duties. 

Seven  years  after  Franz's  death  Christine 
and  her  daughter  died  together  of  the  Roman 
fever,  and  James  Barker  Clarke,  junior,  was 
left  sole  inheritor  of  Franz's  wealth. 

"A  German  dreamer!" 

Ah,  well,  there  are  dreamers  and  dream- 
ers. And  perchance  he  that  seeks  fame, 
and  he  that  seeks  gold,  and  he  that  seeks 
power,  may  all  alike,  when  this  shadowy 
existence  is  over,  look  back  upon  life  "as  a 
dream  when  one  awaketh." 


54  Winter  Evening  Tales. 


THE  VOICE  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

"It  is  the  King's  highway  that  we  are 
in;  and  know  this,  His  messengers  are  on 
it.  They  who  have  ears  to  hear  will  hear; 
and  He  opens  the  eyes  of  some,  and  they 
see  things  not  to  be  lightly  spoken  of. ' ' 

It  was  John  Balmuto  who  said  these 
words  to  me.  John  was  a  Shetlander,  and 
for  forty  years  he  had  gone  to  the  Arctic 
seas  with  the  whale  boats.  Then  there  had 
come  to  him  a  wonderful  experience.  He 
had  been  four  days  and  nights  alone  with 
God  upon  the  sea,  among  mountains  of  ice 
reeling  together  in  perilous  madness,  and 
with  little  light  but  the  angry  flush  of  the 
aurora.  Then,  undoubtedly,  was  born  that 
strong  faith  in  the  Unseen  which  made  him 
an  active  character  in  the  facts  I  am  going 
to  relate. 

After  his  marvelous  salvation,  he  devoted 
his  life  to  the  service  of  God  by  entering 
that  remarkable  body  of  lay  evangelists 
attached  to  the  Presbyterian  Church  in 
Highland  parishes,  called  "The  Men,"  and 
he  became  noted  throughout  the  Hebrides 
for  his  labors,  and  for  his  knowledge  of  the 
Scriptures. 

Circumstances,  that  summer,  had  thrown 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  55 

us  together;  I,  a  young  woman,  just  enter- 
ing an  apparently  fortunate  life;  he,  an 
aged  saint,  standing  on  the  borderland  of 
eternity.  And  we  were  sitting  together,  in 
the  gray  summer  gloaming,  when  he  said 
to  me,  "Thou  art  silent  to-night.  What 
hast  thou,  then,  on  thy  mind?" 

' '  I  had  a  strange  dream.  I  cannot  shake 
off  its  influence.  Of  course  it  is  folly,  and 
I  don't  believe  in  dreams  at  all. "  And  it 
was  then  he  said  to  me,  "It  is  the  King's 
highway  that  we  are  in,  and  know  this, 
His  messengers  are  on  it. " 

' '  But  it  was  only  a  dream. ' ' 

"Well,  God  speaks  to  His  children  'in 
dreams,  and  by  the  oracles  that  come  in 
darkness.'  ' 

' '  He  used  to  do  so. ' ' 

' '  Wilt  thou  then  say  that  He  has  ceased 
so  to  speak  to  men  ?  Now,  I  will  tell  thee 
a  thing  that  happened;  I  will  tell  thee  just 
the  bare  facts;  I  will  put  nothing  to,  nor 
take  anything  away  from  them. 

' '  'Tis  five  years  ago  the  first  day  of  last 
June.  I  was  in  Stornoway  in  the  Lews, 
and  I  was  going  to  the  Gairloch  Preach- 
ings. It  was  rough,  cheerless  weather,  and 
all  the  fishing  fleet  were  at  anchor  for  the 
night,  with  no  prospect  of  a  fishing.  The 
fishers  were  sitting  together  talking  over 
the  bad  weather,  but,  indeed,  without  that 
bitterness  that  I  have  heard  from  landsmen 


56  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

when  it  would  be  the  same  trouble  with 
them.  So  I  gathered  them  into  Donald 
Brae's  cottage,  and  we  had  a  very  good 
hour.  I  noticed  a  stranger  in  the  corner 
of  the  room,  and  some  one  told  me  he  was 
one  of  those  men  who  paint  pictures,  and  I 
saw  that  he  was  busy  with  a  pencil  and 
paper  even  while  we  were  at  the  service. 
But  the  next  day  I  left  for  the  Preachings, 
and  I  thought  no  more  of  him,  good  or  bad. 

' '  On  the  first  of  September  I  was  in  Oban. 
I  had  walked  far  and  was  very  tired,  but  I 
went  to  John  MacNab's  cottage,  and,  after 
I  had  eat  my  kippered  herring  and  drank 
my  tea,  I  felt  better.  Then  I  talked  with 
John  about  the  resurrection  of  the  body, 
for  he  was  in  a  tribulation  of  thoughts  and 
doubts  as  to  whether  our  Lord  had  a  per- 
manent humanity  or  not. 

"And  I  said  to  him,  John,  Christ  re- 
deemed our  whole  nature,  and  it  is  this  way : 
the  body  being  ransomed,  as  well  as  the 
spirit,  by  no  less  a  price  than  the  body  of 
Christ,  shall  be  equally  cleansed  and  glori- 
fied. Now,  then,  after  I  had  gone  to  my 
room,  I  was  sitting  thinking  of  these 
things,  and  of  no  other  things  whatever. 
There  was  not  a  sound  but  that  of  the 
waves  breaking  among  the  rocks,  and 
drawing  the  tinkling  pebbles  down  the 
beach  after  them.  Then  the  ears  of  my 
spiritual  body  were  opened,  and  I  heard 


Winter  Evening  Tales.      •       57 

these  words,  '  I  will  go  with  thee  to  Glasgow!' 
Instead  of  saying  to  the  heavenly  message, 
'I  am  ready!'  I  began  to  argue  with  myself 
thus :  '  Whatever  for  should  I  go  to  Glas- 
gow ?  I  know  not  anyone  there.  No  one 
knows  me.  I  have  duties  at  Portsee  not  to 
be  left.  I  have  no  money  for  such  a  jour- 
ney— ' 

' '  I  fell  asleep  to  such  thoughts.  Then 
I  dreamed  of — or  I  saw — a  woman  fair  as 
the  daughters  of  God,  and  she  said,  ' 1 will 
go  with  thee  to  Glasgow  /'  With  a  strange 
feeling  of  being  hurried  and  pressed  I 
awoke — wide  awake,  and  without  any  con- 
scious will  of  my  own,  I  answered,  'I  am 
ready.  I  am  ready  now. ' 

"As  I  left  the  cottage  it  was  striking 
twelve,  and  I  wondered  what  means  of 
reaching  Glasgow  I  should  find  at  mid- 
night. But  I  walked  straight  to  the  pier, 
and  there  was  a  small  steamer  with  her 
steam  up.  She  was  blowing  her  whistle 
impatiently,  and  when  the  skipper  saw  me 
coming,  he  called  to  me,  in  a  passion, 
'Well,  then,  is  it  all  night  I  shall  wait  for 
thee?1 

"I  soon  perceived  that  there  was  a  mis- 
take, and  that  it  was  not  John  Balmuto  he 
had  been  instructed  to  wait  for.  But  I 
heeded  not  that ;  I  was  under  orders  I  durst 
not  disobey.  She  was  a  trading  steamer, 
with  a  perishable  cargo  of  game  and  lobsters, 


58      .       Winter  Evening  Tales. 

and  so  she  touched  at  no  place  whatever  till 
we  reached  Glasgow.  One  of  her  passen- 
gers was  David  MacPherson  of  Harris,  a 
very  good  man,  who  had  known  me  in  my 
visitations.  He  was  going  to  Glasgow  as 
a  witness  in  a  case  to  be  tried  between  the 
Harris  fishers  and  their  commission  house 
in  Glasgow. 

"As  we  walked  together  from  the 
steamer,  he  said  to  me,  %et  us  go  round 
by  the  court  house,  John,  and  I'll  find  out 
when  I'll  be  required.'  That  was  to  my 
mind;  I  did  not  feel  as  if  I  could  go  astray, 
whatever  road  was  taken,  and  I  turned 
with  him  the  way  he  desired  to  go.  He 
found  the  lawyer  who  needed  him  in  the 
court  house,  and  while  they  talked  together 
I  went  forward  and  listened  to  the  case  that 
was  in  hand. 

"It  was  a  trial  for  murder,  and  I  could 
not  keep  my  eyes  off  the  young  man  who 
was  charged  with  the  crime.  He  seemed 
to  be  quite  broken  down  with  shame  and 
sorrow.  Before  MacPherson  called  me  the 
court  closed  and  the  constables  took  him 
away.  As  he  passed  me  our  eyes  met,  and 
my  heart  dirled  and  burned,  and  I  could  not 
make  out  whatever  would  be  the  matter 
with  me.  All  night  his  face  haunted  me. 
I  was  sure  I  had  seen  it  some  place ;  and 
besides  it  would  blend  itself  with  the  dream 
which  had  brought  me  to  Glasgow. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  59 

' '  In  the  morning  I  was  early  at  the 
court  house  and  I  saw  the  prisoner  brought 
in.  There  was  the  most  marvelous  change 
in  his  looks.  He  walked  like  a  man  who 
has  lost  fear,  and  his  face  was  quite  calm. 
But  now  it  troubled  me  more  than  ever. 
Whatever  had  I  to  do  with  the  young  man  ? 
Yet  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  him. 

"I  listened  and  found  out  that  he  was 
accused  of  murdering  his  uncle.  They  had 
been  traveling  together  and  were  known  to 
have  been  at  Ullapool  on  the  thirtieth  of 
May.  On  the  first  of  June  the  elder  man 
was  found  in  a  lonely  place  near  Oban, 
dead,  and,  without  doubt,  from  violence. 
The  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence 
against  his  nephew  was  very  strong.  To 
judge  by  it  I  would  have  said  myself  to 
him,  'Thou  art  certainly  guilty.' 

"On  the  other  side  the  young  man  de- 
clared that  he  had  quarreled  with  his  uncle 
at  Ullapool  and  left  him  clandestinely.  He 
had  then  taken  passage  in  a  Manx  fishing 
smack  which  was  going  to  the  Lews,  but 
he  had  forgotten  the  name  of  the  smack. 
He  was  not  even  certain  if  the  boat  was 
Manx.  The  landlord  of  the  inn,  at  which 
he  said  he  stayed  when  in  the  Lews,  did  not 
remember  him.  'A  thing  not  to  be  ex- 
pected,' he  told  the  jury,  'for  in  the  sum- 
mer months,  what  with  visitors,  and  what 
with  the  fishers,  a  face  in  Stornoway  was 


60  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

like  a  face  on  a  crowded  street.    The  young 
man  might  have  been  there' — 

4 'The  word  Stornoway  made  the  whole 
thing  clear  to  me.  The  prisoner  was  the 
man  I  had  noticed  with  a  pencil  and  paper 
among  the  fishers  in  Donald  Brae's  cottage. 
Yes,  indeed  he  was!  I  knew  then  why  I 
had  been  sent  to  Glasgow.  I  walked 
quickly  to  the  bar,  and  lifting  my  bonnet 
from  my  head,  I  said  to  the  judge,  'My 
lord,  the  prisoner  was  in  Stornoway  on  the 
first  of  June.  I  saw  him  there  ! ' 

"  He  gave  a  great  cry  of  joy  and  turned 
to  me ;  and  in  a  moment  he  called  out : 
'  You  are  the  man  who  read  the  Bible  to  the 
fishers.  I  remember  you.  I  have  your 
likeness  among  my  drawings.'  And  I 
said,  '  I  am  the  man.' 

"Then  my  lord,  the  judge,  made  them 
swear  me,  and  he  said  they  would  hear  my 
evidence.  For  one  moment  I  was  a  coward. 
I  thought  I  would  hide  God's  share  in  the 
deliverance,  lest  men  should  doubt  my 
whole  testimony.  The  next,  I  was  telling 
the  true  story:  how  I  had  been  called  at 
midnight — twice  called;  how  I  had  found 
Evan  Conochie's  boat  waiting  for  me;  how 
on  the  boat  I  had  met  David  MacPherson, 
and  been  brought  to  the  court  house  by 
him,  having  no  intention  or  plan  of  my 
own  in  the  matter. 

' '  And  there  was  a  great  awe  in  the  room 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  61 

as  I  spoke.  Every  one  believed  what  I 
said,  and  my  lord  asked  for  the  names  of  the 
fishers  who  were  present  in  Donald  Brae's 
cottage  on  the  night  of  the  first  of  June. 
Very  well,  then,  I  could  give  many  of  them, 
and  they  were  sent  for,  and  the  lad  was 
saved,  thank  God  Almighty!" 

''How  do  you  explain  it,  John?" 

"No,  I  will  not  try  to  explain  it;  for  it 
is  not  to  be  hoped  that  anyone  can  explain 
by  human  reason  the  things  surpassing 
human  reason. ' ' 

1 '  Do  you  know  what  became  of  the  young 
man  ? ' ' 

' '  I  will  tell  thee  about  him .  He  is  a 
very  rich  young  man,  and  the  only  child  of 
a  widow,  known  like  Dorcas  of  old  for  her 
great  goodness  to  the  Lord's  poor.  But 
when  his  mother  died  it  did  not  go  well  and 
peaceably  between  him  and  his  uncle  ;  and 
it  is  true  that  he  left  him  at  Ullapool  with- 
out a  word.  Well,  then,  he  fell  into  this 
sore  strait,  and  it  seemed  as  if  all  hope  of 
proving  his  innocence  was  over. 

' '  But  that  very  night  on  which  I  saw  him 
first,  he  dreamed  that  his  mother  came  to  him 
in  his  cell  and  she  comforted  him  and  told 
him,  'To-morrow,  surely,  thy  deliverer  shall 
speak  for  thee.'  He  never  doubted  the 
heavenly  vision.  'How  could  I?'  he  asked 
me.  'My  mother  never  deceived  me  in 
life;  would  she  come  to  me,  even  in  a 
dream,  to  tell  me  a  lie?  Ah,  no!'  " 


62  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"Is  he  still  alive?" 

' '  God  preserve  him  for  many  a  year  yet ! 
I'll  only  require  to  speak  his  name"  — 
and  when  he  had  done  so,  I  knew  the  secret 
spring  of  thankfulness  that  fed  the  never- 
ceasing  charity  of  one  great,  good  man. 

"And  yet,  John,"  I  urged,  "how  can 
spirit  speak  with  spirit?" 

"'How?'  I  will  tell  thee,  that  word 
'how'  has  no  business  in  the  mouth  of  a 
child  of  God.  When  I  was  a  boy,  who  had 
dreamed  'how'  men  in  London  might  speak 
with  men  in  Edinburgh  through  the  air, 
invisible  and  unheard?  That  is  a  matter 
of  trade  now.  Can  thou  imagine  what 
subtle  secret  lines  there  may  be  between 
the  spiritual  world  and  this  world?" 

"But  dreams,  John?" 

"Well,  then,  dreams.  Take  the  dream 
life  out  of  thy  Bible  and,  oh,  how  much 
thou  wilt  lose !  All  through  it  this  side  of 
the  spiritual  world  presses  close  on  the 
human  side.  I  thank  God  for  it.  Yes, 
indeed !  Many  things  I  hear  and  see  which 
say  to  me  that  Christians  now  have  a  kind 
of  shame  in  what  is  mystical  or  super- 
natural. But  thou  be  sure  of  this — the 
supernaturalism  of  the  Bible,  and  of  every 
Christian  life  is  not  one  of  the  difficulties 
of  our  faith,  it  is  the  foundation  of  our  faith. 
The  Bible  is  a  supernatural  book,  the  law 
of  a  supernatural  religion ;  and  to  part  with 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  63 

this  element  is  to  lose  out  of  it  the  flavor  of 
heaven,  and  the  hope  of  immortality.  Yes, 
indeed!" 

This  conversation  occurred  thirty  years 
ago.  Two  years  since,  I  met  the  man  who 
had  experienced  such  a  deliverance,  and 
he  told  me  again  the  wonderful  story,  and 
showed  me  the  pencil  sketch  which  he  had 
made  of  John  Balmuto  in  Donald  Brae's 
cottage.  He  had  painted  from  it  a  grand 
picture  of  his  deliverer,  wearing  the  long 
black  camlet  cloak  and  head-kerchief  of  the 
order  of  evangelists  to  which  he  belonged. 
I  stood  reverently  before  the  commanding 
figure,  with  its  inspired  eyes  and  rapt  ex- 
pression; for,  during  those  thirty  years,  I 
also  had  learned  that  it  was  only  those 

Whone'erthe  mournful  midnight  hours 

Weeping  upon  their  bed  have  sate, 

Who  know  you  not,  Ye  Heavenly  Powers. 


64  Winter  Evening  Tales. 


SIX,    AND    HALF-A-DOZEN. 

Slain  in  the  battle  of  life.  Wounded  and 
fallen,  trampled  in  the  mire  and  mud  of  the 
conflict,  then  the  ranks  closed  again  and 
left  no  place  for  her.  So  she  crawled  aside 
to  die.  With  a  past  whose  black  despair 
was  as  the  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  a 
future  which  her  early  religious  training 
lit  up  with  the  lurid  light  of  hell,  and  the 
strong  bands  of  a  pitiless  death  dragging 
her  to  the  grave — still  she  craved,  as  the 
awful  hour  drew  near,  to  see  once  more  the 
home  of  her  innocent  childhood.  Not  that 
she  thought  to  die  in  its  shelter — any  one 
who  knew  David  Todd  knew  also  that  was 
a  hopeless  dream;  but  if,  IF  her  father 
should  say  one  pardoning  word,  then  she 
thought  it  would  help  her  to  understand 
the  love  of  God,  and  give  her  some  strength 
to  trust  in  it. 

Karly  in  the  evening,  just  as  the  sun  was 
setting  and  the  cows  were  coming  lowing 
up  the  little  lane,  scented  with  the  bursting 
lilac  bushes,  she  stood  humbly  at  the  gate 
her  father  must  pass  in  order  to  go  to  the 
hillside  fold  to  shelter  the  ewes  and  lambs. 
Very  soon  she  saw  him  coming,  his  Scotch 
bonnet  pulled  over  his  brows,  his  steps 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  65 

steadied  by  his  shepherd's  staff.  His  lips 
were  firmly  closed,  and  his  eyes  looked  far 
over  the  hills ;  for  David  was  a  mystic  in 
his  own  way,  and  they  were  to  him  temples 
not  made  with  hands  in  which  he  had  seen 
and  heard  wonderful  things.  Here  the 
storehouses  of  hail  and  lightning  had  been 
opened  in  his  sight,  and  he  had  watched  in 
the  sunshine  the  tempest  bursting  beneath 
his  feet.  He  had  trod  upon  rainbows  and 
been  waited  upon  by  spectral  mists.  The 
voices  of  winds  and  waters  were  in  his 
heart,  and  he  passionately  believed  in  God. 
But  it  was  the  God  of  his  own  creed — jeal- 
ous, just  and  awful  in  that  inconceivable 
holiness  which  charges  his  angels  with  folly 
and  detects  impurit}7"  in  the  sinless  heavens. 
So,  when  he  approached  the  gate  he  saw, 
but  would  not  see,  the  dying  girl  who 
leaned  against  it.  Whatever  he  felt  he 
made  no  sign.  He  closed  it  without  hurry, 
and  then  passed  on  the  other  side. 

1 '  Father !  O,  father !  speak  one  word  to 
me." 

Then  he  turned  and  looked  at  her, 
sternly  and  awfully. 

"Thou  art  nane  o'  my  bairn.  I  ken 
naught  o'  thee. ' ' 

Without  another  glance  at  the  white, 
despairing  face,  he  walked  rapidly  on ;  for 
the  spring  nights  were  chilly,  and  he  must 
gather  his  lambs  into  the  fold,  though  this 


66  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

poor  sheep  of  his  own  household  was  left 
to  perish. 

But,  if  her  father  knew  her  no  more,  the 
large  sheep-dog  at  his  side  was  not  so  cruel. 
No  theological  dogmas  measured  Rover's 
love;  the  stain  on  the  spotless  name  of  his 
master's  house,  which  hurt  the  old  man 
like  a  wound,  had  not  shadowed  his  mem- 
ory. He  licked  her  hands  and  face,  and 
tried  with  a  hospitality  and  pity  which 
made  him  so  much  nearer  the  angels  than 
his  master  to  pull  her  toward  her  home. 
But  she  shook  her  head  and  moaned  piti- 
fully; then  throwing  her  arms  round  the 
poor  brute  she  kissed  him  with  those  pas- 
sionate kisses  of  repentance  and  love  which 
should  have  fallen  on  her  father's  neck. 
The  dog  (dumb  to  all  but  God)  pleaded 
with  sorrowful  eyes  and  half-frantic  ges- 
tures; but  she  turned  wearily  away  toward 
a  great  circle  of  immense  rocks — relics  of  a 
religion  scarcely  more  cruel  than  that  which 
had  neither  pity  nor  forgiveness  at  the 
mouth  of  the  grave.  Within  their  shadow 
she  could  die  unseen;  and  there  next  morn- 
ing a  wagoner,  attracted  by  the  plaintive 
howling  of  a  dog,  found  her  on  the  ground, 
dead. 

There  are  set  awful  hours  between  every 
soul  and  heaven.  Who  knows  what  passed 
between  Lettice  Todd  and  her  God  in  that 
dim  forsaken  temple  of  a  buried  faith? 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  67 

Death  closes  tenderly  even  the  eyes  full  of 
tears,  and  her  face  was  beautiful  with  a 
strange  peace,  though  its  loveliness  was 
marred  and  its  youth  "seared  with  the 
autumn  of  strange  suffering. ' ' 

At  the  inquest  which  followed,  her  stern 
old  father  neither  blamed  nor  excused  him- 
self. He  accepted  without  apology  the 
verdict  of  society  against  him;  only  re- 
marking that  its  reproof  was  "a  guid  ex- 
ample o'  Satan  correcting  sin.  " 

Scant  pity  and  less  ceremony  was  given 
to  her  burial.  Death,  which  draws  under 
the  mantle  of  Charity  the  pride,  cruelty 
and  ambition  of  men,  covering  them  with 
those  two  narrow  words  Hie  jacet !  gives 
also  to  the  woman  who  has  been  a  sinner 
all  she  asks— oblivion.  In  no  other  way 
can  she  obtain  from  man  toleration.  The 
example  of  the  whitest,  purest  soul  that 
ever  breathed  on  earth,  in  this  respect,  is 
ignored  in  the  church  He  founded.  The 
tenderest  of  human  hearts,  "when  lovely 
woman  stooped  to  folly,"  found  no  way  of 
escape  for  her  but  to  "die;"  and  those 
closet  moralists,  with  filthy  fancies  and 
soiled  souls,  who  abound  in  every  com- 
munity, regard  her  with  that  sort  of  scorn 
which  a  Turk  expresses  when  he  says 
"Dog  of  a  Christian."  Poor  lattice!  She 
had  procured  this  doom — first  by  sacrificing 
herself  to  a  blind  and  cruel  love,  and  then 


68  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

to  the  importunate  demands  of  hunger, 
"oldest  and  strongest  of  passions."  Ah!  if 
there  was  no  pity  in  Heaven,  no  justice 
beyond  the  grave,  what  a  cruel  irony  this 
life  would  be!  For,  while  the  sexton 
shoveled  hastily  over  the  rude  coffin  the 
obliterating  earth,  there  passed  the  grave- 
yard another  woman  equally  fallen  from  all 
the  apostle  calls  "lovely  and  of  good  re- 
port." One  whose  youth  and  hopes  and 
marvelous  beauty  had  been  sold  for  houses 
and  lands  and  a  few  thousand  pounds  a 
year.  But,  though  her  life  was  a  living 
lie,  the  world  praised  her,  because  she  "had 
done  well  unto  herself. ' '  Yet,  at  the  last 
end,  the  same  seed  brought  forth  the  same 
fruit,  and  the  Lady  of  Hawksworth  Hall 
learned,  with  bitter  rapidity,  that  riches 
are  too  poor  to  buy  love.  Scarcely  had  she 
taken  possession  of  her  splendid  home  be- 
fore she  longed  for  the  placid  happiness  of 
her  mother's  cottage,  and  those  evening 
walks  under  the  beech-trees,  whose  very 
memory  was  now  a  sin.  Over  her  beauti- 
ful face  there  crept  a  pathetic  shadow, 
which  irritated  the  rude  and  noisy  squire 
like  a  reproach.  He  had  always  had  what 
he  wanted.  Not  even  the  beauty  of  all  the 
border  counties  had  been  beyond  his  means 
to  buy  but  somehow  he  felt  as  if  in  this 
bargain  he  had  been  overreached.  Her 
better  part  eluded  his  possession,  and  he 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  69 

felt  dissatisfied  and  angry.  Expostulations 
grew  into  cruel  words;  cruel  words  came 
to  crueler  blows.  Yes,  blows.  English 
gentlemen  thirty  years  ago  knew  their 
privileges;  and  that  was  one  of  them. 
She  was  as  much  and  as  lawfully  his  as  the 
horses  in  his  stables  or  the  hounds  in  his 
kennels.  He  beat  them,  too,  when  they 
did  not  obey  him.  Her  beauty  had  be- 
trayed her  into  the  hands  of  misery.  She 
had  wedded  it,  and  there  was  no  escape  for 
her.  One  day,  when  her  despair  and  suf- 
ering  was  very  great,  some  tempting  devil 
brought  her  a  glass  of  brandy,  and  she 
drank  it.  It  gave  her  back  for  a  few  hours 
her  departed  sceptre;  but  at  what  a  price! 
Her  slave  soon  became  her  master.  Stimulus 
and  stupefaction,  physical  exhaustion  and 
mental  horrors,  the  abandonment  of  friends 
and  the  brutality  of  a  coarse  and  cruel  hus- 
band, brought  her  at  last  to  the  day  of 
reckoning.  She  died,  seven  years  after  her 
marriage,  in  the  delirium  of  opium.  There 
were  physicians  and  servants  around  her, 
and  an  unloving  husband  waiting  for  the 
news  of  his  release.  I  think  I  would  rather 
have  died  where  Lettice  did — under  the 
sky,  with  the  solemn  mountains  lifting 
their  heads  in  a  perpetual  prayer  around 
me,  and  that  faithful  dog  licking  my  hands 
and  mourning  my  wasted  life. 

Now,    wherein    did    these    two    women 


70  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

differ  ?  One  sinned  through  an  intense  and 
self-sacrificing  love,  and  in  obedience  to  the 
strongest  calls  of  want.  Her  sin,  though 
it  was  beyond  the  pale  of  the  world's  tole- 
ration, was  yet  one  according  to  Nature. 
The  other,  in  a  cold  spirit  of  barter,  vol- 
untarily and  deliberately  exchanged  her 
youth  and  beauty,  the  hopes  of  her  own 
and  another's  life,  for  carriages,  jewels, 
fine  clothing  and  a  luxurious  table.'  She 
loathed  the  price  she  had  to  pay,  and  her 
sin  was  an  unnatural  one.  For  this  kind 
of  prostitution,  which  religion  blesses  and 
society  praises,  there  seems  to  be  no  re- 
dress ;  but  for  that  which  results  as  the 
almost  inevitable  sequence  of  one  lapse  of 
chastity  wey  the  pious,  the  virtuous,  the 
irreproachable,  are  all  to  blame.  Who  or 
what  make  it  impossible  for  them  to  retrace 
their  steps?  Do  they  ever  have  reason  to 
hope  that  the  family  hearth  will  be  open  to 
them  if  they  go  back  ?  Prodigal  sons  may 
return,  and  are  welcomed  with  tears  of  joy 
and  clasped  by  helping  hands;  but  alas! 
how  few  parents  would  go  to  meet  a  sin- 
ning daughter.  Forgetting  our  Master's 
precepts,  forgetting  our  human  frailty, 
forgetting  our  own  weakness,  we  turn 
scornfully  from  the  weeping  Magdalen, 
and  leave  her  "alone  with  the  irreparable. ' ' 
Marriage  is  a  holy  and  a  necessary  rite. 
We  would  deprecate  any  loosening  of  this 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  71 

great  house-band  of  society ;  but  we  do  say 
that  where  it  is  the  only  distinction  between 
two  women,  one  of  whom  is  an  honored  ma- 
tron, and  the  other  a  Pariah  and  an  out- 
cast, there  is  "something  in  the  world 
amiss" — -something  be}^ond  the  cure  of  law 
or  legislation,  and  that  they  can  only  be 
reached  by  the  authority  of  a  Christian 
press  and  the  influence  of  Christian  ex- 
ample. 


72  Winter  Evening  Tales. 


THE  STORY  OF   DAVID  MORRISON. 

I  think  it  is  very  likely  that  many  New 
Yorkers  were  familiar  with  the  face  of 
David  Morrison.  It  was  a  peculiarly 
guileless,  kind  face  for  a  man  of  sixty 
years  of  age ;  a  face  that  looked  into  the 
world's  face  with  something  of  the  con- 
fidence of  a  child.  It  had  round  it  a  little 
fringe  of  soft,  light  hair,  and  above  that  a 
big  blue  Scotch  bonnet  of  the  Rob  Roryson 
fashion. 

The  bonnet  had  come  with  him  from  the 
little  Highland  clachan,  where  he  and  his 
brother  Sandy  had  scrambled  through  a 
hard,  happy  boyhood  together.  It  had 
sometimes  been  laid  aside  for  a  more  pre- 
tentious headgear,  but  it  had  never  been 
lost;  and  in  his  old  age  and  poverty  had 
been  cheerfully — almost  affectionately — re- 
sumed. 

"Sandy  had  one  just  like  it,"  he  would 
say.  ' '  We  bought  them  thegither  in  Aber- 
deen. Twa  braw  lads  were  we  then.  I'm 
wonderin'  where  poor  Sandy  is  the  day!" 

So,  if  anybody  remembers  the  little  spare 
man,  with  the  child-like,  candid  face  and  the 
big  blue  bonnet,  let  them  recall  him  kindly. 
It  is  his  true  history  I  am  telling  to-day. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  73 

Davie  had,  as  I  said  before,  a  hard  boy- 
hood. He  knew  what  cold,  hunger  and 
long  hours  meant  as  soon  as  he  knew  any- 
thing; but  it  was  glorified  in  his  memory 
by  the  two  central  figures  in  it — a  good 
mother,  for  whom  he  toiled  and  suffered 
cheerfully,  and  a  big  brother  who  helped 
him  bravely  over  all  the  bits  of  life  that 
were  too  hard  for  his  young  feet. 

When  the  mother  died,  the  lads  sailed 
together  for  America.  They  had  a  "far- 
awa'  cousin  in  New  York,  who,  report 
said,  had  done  well  in  the  plastering  busi- 
ness, and  Sandy  never  doubted  but  that 
one  Morrison  would  help  another  Morrison 
the  wide  world  over.  With  this  faith  in 
their  hearts  and  a  few  shillings  in  their 
pockets,  the  two  lads  landed.  The  Ameri- 
can Morrison  had  not  degenerated.  He 
took  kindly  to  his  kith  and  kin,  and  offered 
to  teach  them  his  own  craft. 

For  some  time  the  brothers  were  well 
content;  but  Sandy  was  of  an  ambitious, 
adventurous  temper,  and  was  really  only 
waiting  until  he  felt  sure  that  wee  Davie 
could  take  care  of  himself.  Nothing  but 
the  Great  West  could  satisfy  Sandy's 
hopes;  but  he  never  dreamt  of  exposing 
his  brother  to  its  dangers  and  privations. 

''You're  nothing  stronger  than  a  bit 
lassie,  Davie,"  he  said,  "and  you're  no  to 
fret  if  I  don't  take  you  wi'  me.  I'm  going 


74  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

to  make  a  big  fortune,  and  when  I  have 
gotten  the  gold  safe,  I'se  come  back  to  )'ou, 
and  we'll  spend  it  thegither  dollar  for 
dollar,  my  wee  lad." 

"Sure  as  death!  You'll  come  back  to 
me?" 

"Sure  as  death,  I'll  come  back  to  you, 
Davie!"  and  Sandy  thought  it  no  shame  to 
cry  on  his  little  brother's  neck,  and  to  look 
back,  with  a  .loving,  hopeful  smile  at 
Davie' s  sad,  wistful  face,  just  as  long  as  he 
could  see  it. 

It  was  Davie's  nature  to  believe  and  to 
trust.  With  a  pitiful  confidence  and  con- 
stancy he  looked  for  the  redemption  of  his 
brother's  promise.  After  twenty  years  of 
absolute  silence,  he  used  to  sit  in  the  even- 
ings after  his  wTork  was  over,  and  wonder 
"how  Sandy  and  he  had  lost  each  other." 
For  the  possibility  of  Sandy  forgetting  him 
never  once  entered  his  loyal  heart. 

He  could  find  plenty  of  excuses  for 
Sandy's  silence.  In  the  long  years  of  their 
separation  many  changes  had  occurred  even 
in  a  life  so  humble  as  Davie's.  First,  his 
cousin  Morrison  died,  and  the  old  business 
was  scattered  and  forgotten.  Then  Davie 
had  to  move  his  residence  very  frequently ; 
had  even  to  follow  lengthy  jobs  into  various 
country  places,  so  that  his  old  address  soon 
became  a  very  blind  clew  to  him. 

Then  seven  years  after  Sandy's  departure 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  75 

the  very  house  in  which  they  had  dwelt 
was  pulled  down ;  an  iron  factory  was  built 
on  its  site,  and  probably  a  few  months 
afterward  no  one  in  the  neighborhood 
could  have  told  anything  at  all  about  Davie 
Morrison.  Thus,  unless  Sandy  should  come 
himself  to  find  his  brother,  every  year  made 
the  probability  of  a  letter  reaching  him  less 
and  less  likely. 

Perhaps,  as  the  years  went  by,  the  pros- 
pect of  a  reunion  became  more  of  a  dream 
than  an  expectation.  Davie  had  married 
very  happily,  a  simple  little  body,  not  un- 
like himself,  both  in  person  and  disposition. 
They  had  one  son,  who,  of  course,  had  been 
called  Alexander,  and  in  whom  Davie 
fondly  insisted,  the  lost  Sandy's  beauty 
and  merits  were  faithfully  reproduced. 

It  is  needless  to  say  the  boy  was  extrav- 
agantly loved  and  spoiled.  Whatever 
Davie' s  youth  had  missed,  he  strove  to 
procure  for  "Little  Sandy."  Many  an 
extra  hour  he  worked  for  this  unselfish 
end.  Life  itself  became  to  him  only  an 
implement  with  which  to  toil  for  his  boy's 
pleasure  and  advantage.  It  was  a  common- 
place existence  enough,  and  yet  through  it 
ran  one  golden  thread  of  romance. 

In  the  summer  evenings,  when  they 
walked  together  on  the  Battery,  and  in 
winter  nights,  when  they  sat  together  by 
the  stove,  Davie  talked  to  his  wife  and 


76  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

child  of  that  wonderful  brother,  who  had 
gone  to  look  for  fortune  in  the  great  West. 
The  simplicity  of  the  elder  two  and  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  youth  equally  accepted 
the  tale. 

Somehow,  through  many  a  year,  a  belief 
in  his  return  invested  life  with  a  glorious 
possibility.  Any  night  they  might  come 
home  and  find  Uncle  Sandy  sitting  by  the 
fire,  with  his  pockets  full  of  gold  eagles, 
and  no  end  of  them  in  some  safe  bank,  be- 
sides. 

But  when  the  youth  had  finished  his 
schooldays,  had  learned  a  trade  and  began 
to  go  sweethearting,  more  tangible  hopes 
and  dreams  agitated  all  their  hearts;  for 
young  Sandy  Morrison  opened  a  carpenter's 
shop  in  his  own  name,  and  began  to  talk  of 
taking  a  wife  and  furnishing  a  home. 

He  did  not  take  just  the  wife  that  pleased 
his  father  and  mother.  There  was  nothing, 
indeed,  about  Sallie  Barker  of  which  they 
could  complain.  She  was  bright  and  cap- 
able, but  they  felt  a  want  they  were  not 
able  to  analyze ;  the  want  was  that  pure  un- 
selfishness which  was  the  ruling  spirit  of 
their  own  lives. 

This  want  never  could  be  supplied  in 
Sallie' s  nature.  She  did  right  because  it 
was  her  duty  to  do  right,  not  because  it 
gave  her  pleasure  to  do  it.  When  they  had 
been  married  three  years  the  war  broke 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  77 

out,  and  soon  afterward  Alexander  Mor- 
rison was  drafted  for  the  army.  Sallie, 
who  was  daily  expecting  her  second  child, 
refused  all  consolation;  and,  indeed,  their 
case  looked  hard  enough. 

At  first  the  possibility  of  a  substitute 
had  suggested  itself;  but  a  family  consulta- 
tion soon  showed  that  this  was  impossible 
without  hopelessly  straitening  both  houses. 
Everyone  knows  that  dreary  silence  which 
follows  a  long  discussion,  that  has  only 
confirmed  the  fear  of  an  irremediable  mis- 
fortune. Davie  broke  it  in  this  case  in  a 
very  unexpected  manner. 

"Let  me  go  in  your  place,  Sandy.  I'd 
like  to  do  it,  my  lad.  Maybe  I'd  find  your 
uncle.  Who  knows?  What  do  you  say, 
old  wife?  We've  had  more  than  twenty 
years  together.  It  is  pretty  hard  for  Sandy 
and  Sallie,  now,  isn't  it?" 

He  spoke  with  a  bright  face  and  in  a  cheer- 
ful voice,  as  if  he  really  was  asking  a  favor 
for  himself;  and,  though  he  did  not  try  to 
put  his  offer  into  fine,  heroic  words,  nothing 
could  have  been  finer  or  more  heroic  than 
the  perfect  self-abnegation  of  his  manner. 

The  poor  old  wife  shed  a  few  bitter  tears ; 
but  she  also  had  been  practicing  self-denial 
for  a  lifetime,  and  the  end  of  it  was  that 
Davie  went  to  weary  marches  and  lonely 
watches,  and  Sandy  staid  at  home. 

This  was  the  break-up  of  Davie' s  life. 


7«  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

His  wife  went  to  live  with  Sandy  and 
Sallie,  and  the  furniture  was  mostly  sold. 

Few  people  could  have  taken  these  events 
as  Davie  did.  He  even  affected  to  be 
rather  smitten  with  the  military  fever,  and, 
when  the  parting  came,  left  wife  and  son 
and  home  with  a  cheerful  bravery  that  was 
sad  enough  to  the  one  old  heart  who  had 
counted  its  cost. 

In  Davie' s  loving,  simple  nature  there 
was  doubtless  a  strong  vein  of  romance. 
He  was  really  in  hopes  that  he  might  come 
across  his  long-lost  brother.  He  had  no 
very  clear  idea  as  to  localities  and  distances, 
and  he  had  read  so  many  marvelous  war 
stories  that  all  things  seemed  possible  in 
its  atmosphere.  But  reality  and  romance 
are  wride  enough  apart. 

Davie's  military  experience  was  a  very 
dull  and  weary  one.  He  grew  poorer  and 
poorer,  lost  heart  and  hope,  and  could  only 
find  comfort  for  all  his  sacrifices  in  the 
thought  that  "at  least  he  had  spared  poor 
Sandy." 

Neither  was  his  home-coming  what  he 
had  pictured  it  in  many  a  reverie.  There 
was  no  wife  to  meet  him — she  had  been 
three  months  in  the  grave  when  he  got 
back  to  New  York — and  going  to  his 
daughter-in-law's  home  was  not — well,  it 
was  not  like  going  to  his  own  house. 

Sallie  was  not    cross  or  cruel,    and   she 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  79 

was  grateful  to  Davie,  but  she  did  not  love 
the  old  man. 

He  soon  found  that  the  attempt  to  take 
up  again  his  trade  was  hopeless.  He  had 
grown  very  old  with  three  years'  exposure 
and  hard  duty.  Other  men  could  do  twice 
the  work  he  could,  and  do  it  better.  He 
must  step  out  from  the  ranks  of  skilled 
mechanics  and  take  such  humble  positions 
as  his  failing  strength  permitted  him  to  fill. 

Sandy  objected  strongly  to  this  at  first. 
"He  could  work  for  both,"  he  said,  "and 
he  thought  father  had  deserved  his  rest.  " 

But  Davie  shook  his  head — "he  must 
earn  his  own  loaf,  and  he  must  earn  it  now, 
just  as  he  could.  Any  honest  way  was 
honorabk  enough. ' '  He  was  still  cheerful 
and  hopeful,  but  it  was  noticeable  that  he 
never  spoke  of  his  brother  Sandy  now ;  he 
had  buried  that  golden  expectation  with 
many  others.  Then  began  for  Davie  Mor- 
rison the  darkest  period  of  his  life.  I  am 
not  going  to  write  its  history. 

It  is  not  pleasant  to  tell  of  a  family  sink- 
ing lower  and  lower  in  spite  of  its  brave 
and  almost  desperate  efforts  to  keep  its 
place — not  pleasant  to  tell  of  the  steps  that 
gradually  brought  it  to  that  pass,  when  the 
struggle  was  despairingly  abandoned,  and 
the  conflict  narrowed  down  to  a  fight  with 
actual  cold  and  hunger. 

It   is  not  pleasant,  mainly,   because   in 


8o  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

such  a  struggle  many  a  lonely  claim  is  piti- 
lessly set  aside.  In  the  daily  shifts  of  bare 
life,  the  tender  words  that  bring  tender  acts 
are  forgotten.  Gaunt  looks,  threadbare 
clothes,  hard  day-labor,  sharp  endurance  of 
their  children's  wants,  made  Sandy  and 
Sallie  Morrison  often  very  hard  to  those  to 
whom  they  once  were  very  tender. 

David  had  noticed  it  for  many  months. 
He  could  see  that  Sallie  counted  grudgingly 
the  few  pennies  he  occasionally  required. 
His  little  newspaper  business  had  been  de- 
clining for  some  years;  people  took  fewer 
papers,  and  some  did  not  pay  for  those  they 
did  take.  He  made  little  losses  that  were 
great  ones  to  him,  and  Sallie  had  long  been 
saying  it  would  "be  far  better  for  father  to 
give  up  the  business  to  Jamie ;  he  is  now  six- 
teen and  brightenough  to  look  after  hisown. ' ' 

This  alternative  David  could  not  bear  to 
think  of ;  and  yet  all  through  the  summer 
the  fear  had  constantly  been  before  him. 
He  knew  how  Sallie' s  plans  always  ended; 
Sandy  was  sure  to  give  into  them  sooner 
or  later,  and  he  wondered  if  into  their 
minds  had  ever  come  the  terrible  thought 
which  haunted  his  own — would  they  commit 
him,  then,  to  the  care  of  public  charities? 

' '  We  have  no  time  to  love  each  other, ' ' 
he  muttered,  sadly,  "and  my  bite  and  sup 
is  hard  to  spare  when  there  is  not  enough 
to  go  round.  I'll  speak  to  Sandy  myself 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  81 

about  it — poor  lad !  It  will  come  hard  on 
him  to  say  the  first  word. ' ' 

The  thought  once  realized  began  to  take 
shape  in  his  mind,  and  that  night,  contrary 
to  his  usual  custom,  he  could  not  go  to 
sleep.  Sandy  came  in  early,  and  the  chil- 
dren went  wearily  off  to  bed.  Then  Sallie 
began  to  talk  on  the  very  subject  which  lay 
so  heavy  on  his  own  heart,  and  he  could 
tell  from  the  tone  of  the  conversation  that 
it  was  one  that  had  been  discussed  many 
times  before. 

' '  He  only  made  bare  expenses  last  week 
and  there's  a  loss  of  seventy  cents  this 
week  already.  Oh,  Sandy,  Sandy!  there 
is  no  use  putting  off  what  is  sure  to  come. 
Little  Davie  had  to  do  without  a  drink  of 
coffee  to-night,  and  his  bread,  you  know, 
comes  off  theirs  at  every  meal.  It  is  very 
hard  on  us  all!" 

"I  don't  think  the  children  mind  it, 
Sallie.  Every  one  of  them  loves  the  old 
man — God  bless  him !  He  was  a  good 
father  to  me. ' ' 

"I  would  love  him,  too,  Sandy,  if  I  did 
not  see  him  eating  my  children's  bread. 
And  neither  he  nor  they  get  enough. 
Sandy,  do  take  him  down  to-morrow,  and 
tell  him  as  you  go  the  strait  we  are  in.  He 
will  be  better  off;  he  will  get  better  food 
and  every  other  comfort.  You  must  do  it, 
Sandy ;  I  can  bear  this  no  longer. ' ' 


82  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"It's  getting  near  Christmas,  Sallie. 
Maybe  he'll  get  New  Year's  presents  enough 
to  put  things  straight.  I«ast  year  they  were 
nearly  eighteen  dollars,  you  know. ' ' 

"Don't  you  see  that  Jamie  could  get  that 
just  as  well  ?  Jamie  can  take  the  business 
and  make  something  of  it.  Father  is  let- 
ting it  get  worse  and  worse  every  week. 
We  should  have  one  less  to  feed,  and 
Jamie's  earnings  besides.  Sandy,  it  has 
got  to  be  /  Do  it  while  we  can  make  some- 
thing by  the  step. ' ' 

"It  is  a  mean,  dastardly  step,  Sallie. 
God  will  never  forgive  me  if  I  take  it, ' ' 
and  David  could  hear  that  his  son's  voice 
trembled. 

In  fact,  great  tears  were  silently  dropping 
from  Sandy's  eyes,  and  his  father  knew  it, 
and  pitied  him,  and  thanked  God  that  the 
lad's  heart  was  yet  so  tender.  And  after 
this  he  felt  strangely  calm,  and  dropped 
into  a  happy  sleep. 

In  the  morning  he  remembered  all.  He 
had  not  heard  the  end  of  the  argument,  but 
he  knew  that  Sallie  would  succeed;  and  he 
was  neither  astonished  nor  dismayed  when 
Sandy  came  home  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
and  asked  him  to  "go  down  the  avenue  a 
bit." 

He  had  determined  to  speak  first  and 
spare  Sandy  the  shame  and  the  sorrow  of 
it;  but  something  would  not  let  him  do  it. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  83 

In  the  first  place,  a  singular  lightness  of 
heart  came  over  him;  he  noticed  all  the 
gay  preparations  for  Christmas,  and  the 
cries  and  bustle  of  the  streets  gave  him  a 
new  sense  of  exhilaration.  Sandy  fell  al- 
most unconsciously  into  his  humor.  He  had 
a  few  cents  in  his  pocket,  and  he  suddenly 
determined  to  go  into  a  cheap  restaurant 
and  have  a  good  warm  meal  with  his  father. 

Davie  was  delighted  at  the  proposal  and 
gay  as  a  child ;  old  memories  of  days  long 
past  crowded  into  both  men's  minds,  and 
they  ate  and  drank,  and  then  wandered  on 
almost  happily.  Davie  knew  very  well 
where  they  were  going,  but  he  determined 
now  to  put  off  saying  a  word  until  the  last 
moment.  He  had  Sandy  all  to  himself  for 
this  hour;  they  might  never  have  such  an- 
other; Davie  was  determined  to  take  all 
the  sweetness  of  it. 

As  they  got  lower  down  the  avenue, 
Sandy  became  more  and  more  silent ;  his 
eyes  looked  straight  before  him,  but  they 
were  brimful  of  tears,  and  the  smile  with 
which  he  answered  Davie' s  pleasant  prattle 
was  almost  more  pitiful  than  tears. 

At  length  they  came  in  sight  of  a  certain 
building,  and  Sandy  gave  a  start  and  shook 
himself  like  a  man  waking  out  of  a  sleep. 
His  words  were  sharp,  his  voice  almost  like 
that  of  a  man  in  mortal  danger,  as  he 
turned  Davie  quickly  round,  and  said: 


-84  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"We  must  go  back  now,  father.  I  will 
not  go  another  step  this  road — no,  by 
heaven!  though  I  die  for  it!" 

"Just  a  little  further,  Sandy." 

And  Davie's  thin,  childlike  face  had  an 
inquiry  in  it  that  Sandy  very  well  under- 
stood. 

"No,  no,  father,  no  further  on  this  road, 
please  God!" 

Then  he  hailed  a  passing  car,  and  put 
the  old  man  tenderly  in  it,  and  resolutely 
turned  his  back  upon  the  hated  point  to 
which  he  had  been  going. 

Of  course  he  thought  of  Sallie  as  they 
rode  home,  and  the  children  and  the  trouble 
there  was  likely  to  be.  But  somehow7  it 
seemed  a  light  thing  to  him.  He  could 
not  helping  nodding  cheerfully  now  and 
then  to  the  father  whom  he  had  so  nearly 
lost;  and,  perhaps,  never  in  all  their  lives 
had  they  been  so  precious  to  each  other 
-as  when,  hand-in-hand,  they  climbed  the 
dark  tenement  stair  together. 

Before  they  reached  the  door  they  heard 
Sallie  push  a  chair  aside  hastily,  and  come 
to  meet  them.  She  had  been  crying,  too, 
and  her  very  first  words  were,  "Oh,  father! 
I  am  so  glad !  —so  glad ! ' ' 

She  did  not  say  what  for,  but  Davie  took 
her  words  very  gratefully,  and  he  made  no 
remark,  though  he  knew  she  went  into  debt 
at  the  grocery  for  the  little  extras  with 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  85 

which  she  celebrated  his  return  at  supper. 
He  understood,  however,  that  the  danger 
was  passed,  and  he  went  to  sleep  that  night 
thanking  God  for  the  love  that  had  stood 
so  hard  a  trial  and  come  out  conqueror. 

The  next  day  life  took  up  its  dreary 
tasks  again,  but  in  Davie's  heart  there 
was  a  strange  presentiment  of  change,  and 
it  almost  angered  the  poor,  troubled,  taxed 
wife  to  see  him  so  thoughtlessly  playing 
with  the  children.  But  the  memory  of  the 
wrong  she  had  nursed  against  him  still 
softened  and  humbled  her,  and  when  he 
came  home  after  carrying  round  his  papers, 
she  made  room  for  him  at  the  stove,  and 
brought  him  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  bit  of 
bread  and  bacon. 

Davie's  eyes  filled,  and  Sallie  went  away 
to  avoid  seeing  them.  So  then  he  took  out 
a  paper  that  he  had  left  and  began  to  read 
it  as  he  ate  and  drank. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  sudden  sharp  cry 
escaped  him.  He  put  the  paper  in  his 
pocket,  and,  hastily  resuming  his  old  army 
cloak  and  Scotch  bonnet,  went  out  without 
a  word  to  anyone. 

The  truth  was  that  he  had  read  a  per- 
sonal notice  which  greatly  disturbed  him. 
It  was  to  the  effect  that,  ' '  If  David  Mor- 
rison, who  left  Aberdeen  in  18 — ,  was  still 
alive,  and  would  apply  to  Messrs.  Morgan 
&  Black,  Wall  street,  he  would  hear  of 
something  to  his  advantage." 


86  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

His  long-lost  brother  was  the  one  thought 
in  his  heart.  He  was  going  now  to  hear 
something  about  Sandy. 

"He  said  'sure  as  death,'  and  he  would 
mind  that  promise  at  the  last  hour,  if  he 
forgot  it  before ;  so,  if  he  could  not  come, 
he'd  doubtless  send,  and  this  will  be  his 
message.  Poor  Sandy !  there  was  never  a 
lad  like  him!" 

When  he  reached  Messrs.  Morgan  & 
Black's,  he  was  allowed  to  stand  unnoticed 
by  the  stove  a  few  minutes,  and  during 
them  his  spirits  sank  to  their  usual  placid 
level.  At  length  some  one  said : 

"Well,  old  man,  what  ^Q  you  want?" 

"I  am  David  Morrison,  and  I  just  came 
to  see  what  you  wanted. ' ' 

"Oh,  you  are  David  Morrison!  Good! 
Go  forward — I  think  you  will  find  out,  then, 
what  we  want. ' ' 

He  was  not  frightened,  but  the  man's 
manner  displeased  him,  and,  without  an- 
swering, he  walked  toward  the  door  indi- 
cated, and  quietly  opened  it. 

An  old  gentleman  was  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  door,  looking  into  the  fire,  and 
one  rather  younger,  was  writing  steadily 
away  at  a  desk.  The  former  never  moved; 
the  latter  simply  raised  his  head  with  an 
annoyed  look,  and  motioned  to  Davie  to 
close  the  door. 

"I  am  David  Morrison,  sir." 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  87 

"Oh,  Davie!  Davie!  And  the  old  blue 
bonnet,  too!  Oh,  Davie!  Davie,  lad!" 

As  for  Davie,  he  was  quite  overcome. 
With  a  cry  of  joy  so  keen  that  it  was  like  a 
sob  of  pain,  he  fell  fainting  to  the  floor. 
When  he  became  conscious  again  he  knew 
that  he  had  been  very  ill,  for  there  were  two 
physicians  by  his  side,  and  Sandy's  face 
was  full  of  anguish  and  anxiety. 

' '  He  will  do  now,  sir.  It  was  only  the 
effect  of  a  severe  shock  on  a  system  too 
impoverished  to  bear  it.  Give  him  a  good 
meal  and  a  glass  of  wine. ' ' 

Sandy  was  not  long  in  following  out  this 
prescription,  and  during  it  what  a  confiding 
session  these  two  hearts  held !  Davie  told 
his  sad  history  in  his  own  unselfish  way, 
making  little  of  all  his  sacrifices,  and  say- 
ing a  great  deal  about  his  son  Sandy,  and 
Sandy's  girls  and  boys. 

But  the  light  in  his  brother's  eyes,  and 
the  tender  glow  of  admiration  with  which 
he  regarded  the  unconscious  hero,  showed 
that  he  understood  pretty  clearly  the  part 
that  Davie  had  always  taken. 

"However,  I  am  o'erpaid  for  every 
grief  I  ever  had,  Sandy,"  said  Davie,  in 
conclusion,  "since  I  have  seen  your  face 
again,  and  you're  just  handsomer  than 
ever,  and  you  eight  years  older  than  me, 
too. ' ' 

Yes,  it  was  undeniable  that  Alexander 


88  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Morrison  was  still  a  very  handsome,  hale 
old  gentleman ;  but  yet  there  was  many  a 
trace  of  labor  and  sorrow  on  his  face;  and 
he  had  known  both. 

For  many  years  after  he  had  left  Davie, 
life  had  been  a  very  hard  battle  to  him. 
During  the  first  twenty  years  of  their  sepa- 
ration, indeed,  Davie  had  perhaps  been  the 
better  off,  and  the  happier  of  the  two. 

When  the  war  broke  out,  Sandy  had  en- 
listed early,  and,  like  Davie,  carried 
through  all  its  chances  and  changes  the 
hope  of  finding  his  brother.  Both  of  them 
had  returned  to  their  homes  after  the 
struggle  equally  hopeless  and  poor. 

But  during  the  last  eleven  years  fortune 
had  smiled  on  Sandy.  Some  call  of  friend- 
ship for  a  dead  comrade  led  him  to  a  little 
Pennsylvania  village,  and  while  there  he 
made  a  small  speculation  in  oil,  which  was 
successful.  He  resolved  to  stay  there, 
rented  his  little  Western  farm,  and  went 
into  the  oil  business. 

"And  I  have  saved  thirty  thousand 
dollars,  hard  cash,  Davie.  Half  of  it  is 
yours,  and  half  mine.  See!  Fifteen  thou- 
sand has  been  entered  from  time  to  time  in 
your  name.  I  told  you,  Davie,  that  when 
I  came  back  we  would  share  dollar  for 
dollar,  and  I  would  not  touch  a  cent  of  your 
share  no  more  than  I  would  rob  the  United 
States  Treasury. ' ' 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  89 

It  was  a  part  of  Davie's  simple  nature 
that  he  accepted  it  without  any  further 
protestation.  Instinctively  he  felt  that  it 
was  the  highest  compliment  he  could  pay 
his  brother.  It  was  as  if  he  said :  ' '  I  firmly 
believed  the  promise  you  made  me  more 
than  forty  years  ago,  and  I  firmly  believe 
in  the  love  and  sincerity  which  this  day  re- 
deems it. ' '  So  Davie  looked  with  a  curious 
joy  fulness  at  the  vouchers  which  testified 
to  fifteen  thousand  dollars  lying  in  the 
Chemical  Bank,  New  York,  to  the  credit 
of  David  Morrison;  and  then  he  said, 
with  almost  the  delight  of  a  schoolboy : 

"And  what  will  you  do  wi'  yours, 
Sandy?" 

"  I  am  going  to  buy  a  farm  in  New  Jer- 
sey, Davie.  I  was  talking  with  Mr.  Black 
about  it  this  morning.  It  will  cost  twelve 
thousand  dollars,  but  the  gentleman  says  it 
will  be  worth  double  that  in  a  very  few 
years.  I  think  that  myself,  Davie,  for  I 
went  yesterday  to  take  a  good  look  at  it. 
It  is  never  well  to  trust  to  other  folks' 
eyes,  you  know." 

"Then,  Sandy,  I'll  go  shares  wi'  you. 
We'll  buy  the  farm  together  and  we'll 
live  together — that  is,  if  you  would  like 
it." 

"What  would  I  like  better?" 

' '  Maybe  you  have  a  wife,  and  then — ' ' 

' '  No,  I  have  no  wife,  Davie.     She  died 


90  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

nearly  thirty  years  ago.  I  have  no  one  but 
you. ' ' 

"And  we  will  grow  small  fruits,  and 
raise  chickens  and  have  the  finest  dairy  in 
the  State,  Sandy." 

"That  is  just  niy  idea,  Davie.  " 

Thus  they  talked  until  the  winter  even- 
ing began  to  close  in  upon  them,  and  then 
Davie  recollected  that  his  boy,  Sandy, 
would  be  more  than  uneasy  about  him. 

'  'I'll  not  ask  you  there  to-night,  brother; 
I  want  them  all  to  myself  to-night.  'Deed, 
I've  been  selfish  enough  to  keep  this  good 
news  from  them  so  long. ' ' 

So,  with  a  hand-shake  that  said  what  no 
words  could  say,  the  brothers  parted,  and 
Davie  made  haste  to  catch  the  next  up-town 
car.  He  thought  they  never  had  traveled 
so  slow'ly;  he  was  half  inclined  several 
times  to  get  out  and  run  home. 

When  he  arrived  there  the  little  kitchen 
was  dark,  but  there  was  a  fire  in  the  stove 
and  wee  Davie — his  namesake — was  sit- 
ting, half  crying,  before  it. 

The  child  lifted  his  little  sorrowful  face  to 
his  grandfather's,  and  tried  to  smile  as  he 
made  room  for  him  in  the  warmest  place. 

"What's  the  matter,  Davie?" 

' '  I  have  had  a  bad  day,  grandfather.  I 
did  not  sell  my  papers,  and  Jack  Dacey 
gave  me  a  beating  besides;  and — and  I 
really  do  think  my  toes  are  frozen  off. ' ' 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  91 

Then  Davie  pulled  the  lad  on  to  his 
knee,  and  whispered 

''Oh,  my  wee  man,  you  shall  sell  no 
more  papers.  You  shall  have  braw  new 
clothes,  and  go  to  school  every  day  of  your 
life.  Whist !  yonder  comes  mammy. ' ' 

Sallie  came  in  with  a  worried  look,  which 
changed  to  one  of  reproach  when  she  saw 
Davie. 

' 'Oh,  father,  how  could  you  stay  abroad 
this  way?  Sandy  is  fair  daft  about  you, 
and  is  gone  to  the  police  stations,  and  I 
don't  know  where — " 

Then  she  stopped,  for  Davie  had  come 
toward  her,  and  there  was  such  a  new, 
strange  look  on  his  face  that  it  terrified  her, 
and  she  could  only  say:  "Father!  father! 
what  is  it?" 

"It  is  good  news,  Sallie.  My  brother 
Sandy  is  come,  and  he  has  just  given  me 
fifteen  thousand  dollars ;  and  there  is  a  ten- 
dollar  bill,  dear  lass,  for  we'll  have  a  grand 
supper  to-night,  please  God." 

By  and  by  they  heard  poor  Sandy's 
weary  footsteps  on  the  stair,  and  Sallie  said: 

"Not  a  word,  children.  Let  grandfather 
tell  your  father. ' ' 

Davie  went  to  meet  him,  and,  before  he 
spoke,  Sandy  saw,  as  Sallie  had  seen,  that 
his  father's  countenance  was  changed,  and 
that  something  wonderful  had  happened. 

"What  is  the  matter,  father?" 


92  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"Fifteen  thousand  dollars  is  the  matter, 
my  boy ;  and  peace  and  comfort  and  plenty, 
and  decent  clothes  and  school  for  the  chil- 
dren, and  a  happy  home  for  us  all  in  some 
nice  country  place. ' ' 

When  Sandy  heard  this  he  kissed  his 
father,  and  then  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands,  sobbed  out: 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!" 

It  was  late  that  night  before  either  the 
children  or  the  elders  could  go  to  sleep. 
Davie  told  them  first  of  the  farm  that 
Sandy  and  he  were  going  to  buy  together, 
and  then  he  said  to  his  son : 

"Now,  my  dear  lad,  what  think  you  is 
best  for  Sallie  and  the  children?" 

"You  say,  father,  that  the  village  where 
you  are  going  is  likely  to  grow  fast. ' ' 

"It  is  sure  to  grow.  Two  lines  of  rail- 
road will  pass  through  it  in  a  month. ' ' 

'  'Then  I  would  like  to  open  a  carpenter's 
shop  there.  There  will  soon  be  work 
enough;  and  we  will  rent  some  nice  little 
cottage,  and  the  children  can  go  to  school, 
and  it  will  be  a  new  life  for  us  all.  I  have 
often  dreamed  of  such  a  chance,  but  I  never 
believed  it  would  come  true. ' ' 

But  the  dream  came  more  than  true.  In 
a  few  weeks  Davie  and  his  brother  were 
settled  in  their  new  home,  and  in  the  ad- 
joining village  Alexander  Morrison,  junior, 
had  opened  a  good  carpenter  and  builder's 
shop,  and  had  begun  to  do  very  well. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  93 

Not  far  from  it  was  the  coziest  of  old 
stone  houses,  and  over  it  Sallie  presided. 
It  stood  among  great  trees,  and  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  fine  fruit  garden,  and  was 
prettily  furnished  throughout;  besides 
which,  and  best  of  all,  it  was  their  own — a 
New  Year's  gift  from  the  kindest  of  grand- 
fathers and  uncles.  People  now  have  got 
well  used  to  seeing  the  Brothers  Morrison. 

They  are  rarely  met  apart.  They  go  to 
market  and  to  the  city  together.  What 
they  buy  they  buy  in  unison,  and  every 
bill  of  sale  they  give  bears  both  their 
names.  Sandy  is  the  ruling  spirit,  but 
Davie  never  suspects,  for  Sandy  invariably 
says  to  all  propositions,  "If  my  brother 
David  agrees,  I  do, ' '  or,  ' '  If  brother  David 
is  satisfied,  I  have  no  more  to  say, ' '  etc. 

Some  of  the  villagers  have  tried  to  per- 
suade them  that  they  must  be  lonely,  but 
they  know  better  than  that.  Old  men  love 
a  great  deal  of  quiet  and  of  gentle  meander- 
ing retrospection;  and  David  and  Sandy 
have  each  of  them  forty  years'  history  to- 
tell  the  other.  Then  they  are  both  very 
fond  of  young  Sandy  and  the  children. 

Sandy's  projects  and  plans  and  building 
contracts  are  always  well  talked  over  at  the 
farm  before  they  are  signed,  and  the  chil- 
dren's lessons  and  holidays,  and  even  their 
new  clothes,  interest  the  two  old  men  al- 
most as  much  as  they  do  Sallie. 


94  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

As  for  Sallie,  you  would  scarcely  know 
her.  She  is  no  longer  cross  with  care  and 
quarrelsome  with  hunger.  I  always  did 
believe  that  prosperity  was  good  for  the 
human  soul,  and  Sallie  Morrison  proves  the 
theory.  She  has  grown  sweet  tempered  in 
its  sunshine,  is  gentle  and  forbearing  to 
her  children,  loving  and  grateful  to  her 
father-in-law,  and  her  husband's  heart 
trusts  in  her. 

Therefore  let  all  those  fortunate  ones 
who  are  in  prosperity  give  cheerfully  to 
those  who  ask  of  them.  It  will  bring  a  ten- 
fold blessing  on  what  remains,  and  the 
piece  of  silver  sent  out  on  its  pleasant 
errand  may  happily  touch  the  hand  that 
shall  bring  the  giver  good  fortune  through 
all  the  years  of  life. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  95 


TOM  DUFFAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

Tom  Duff  an 's  cabinet-pictures  are  charm- 
ing bits  of  painting;  but  you  would  cease 
to  wonder  how  he  caught  such  delicate 
home  touches  if  you  saw  the  room  he 
painted  in ;  for  Tom  has  a  habit  of  turning 
his  wife's  parlor  into  a  studio,  and  both 
parlor  and  pictures  are  the  better  for  the 
habit. 

One  bright  morning  in  the  winter  of 
1872  he  had  got  his  easel  into  a  comfort- 
able light  between  the  blazing  fire  and  the 
window,  and  was  busily  painting.  His 
cheery  little  wife — pretty  enough  in  spite 
of  her  thirty -seven  years — was  reading  the 
interesting  items  in  the  morning  papers  to 
him,  and  between  them  he  sung  softly  to 
himself  the  favorite  tenor  song  of  his 
favorite  opera.  But  the  singing  always 
stopped  when  the  reading  began;  and  so 
politics  and  personals,  murders  and  music, 
dramas  and  divorces  kept  continually  inter- 
rupting the  musical  despair  of  "Ah!  che  la 
morte  ognora." 

But  even  a  morning  paper  is  not  uni- 
versally interesting,  and  in  the  very  middle 
of  an  elaborate  criticism  on  tragedy  and 
Edwin  Booth,  the  parlor  door  partially 


96  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

opened,  and  a  lovelier  picture  than  ever 
Tom  Duffan  painted  stood  in  the  aperture 
— a  piquant,  brown-eyed  girl,  in  a  morning 
gown  of  scarlet  opera  flannel,  and  a  perfect 
cloud  of  wavy  black  hair  falling  around  her. 

"Mamma,  if  anything  on  earth  can  in- 
terest you  that  is  not  in  a  newspaper,  I 
should  like  to  know  whether  crimps  or  curls 
are  most  becoming  with  my  new  seal-skin 
set." 

"Ask  papa." 

"If  I  was  a  picture,  of  course  papa  would 
know;  but  seeing  I  am  only  a  poor  live 
girl,  it  does  not  interest  him. ' ' 

"Because,  Kitty,  you  never  will  dress 
artistically. ' ' 

"Because,  papa,  I  must  dress  fashion- 
ably. It  is  not  my  fault  if  artists  don't 
know  the  fashions.  Can't  I  have  mamma 
for  about  half  an  hour?" 

"When  she  has  finished  this  criticism  of 
Edwin  Booth.  Come  in,  Kitty;  it  will  do 
you  good  to  hear  it. ' ' 

"Thank  you,  no,  papa;  I  am  going  to 
Booth's  myself  to-night,  and  I  prefer  to  do 
my  own  criticism."  Then  Kitty  disap- 
peared, Mrs.  Duffan  skipped  a  good  deal  of 
criticism,  and  Tom  got  back  to  his  "Ah! 
che  la  morte  ognora"  much  quicker  than 
the  column  of  printed  matter  warranted. 

"Well,  Kitty  child,  what  do  you  want?" 

"See  here." 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  97 

" Tickets  for  Booth's?" 

"Parquette  seats,  middle  aisle;  I  know 
them.  Jack  always  does  get  just  about  the 
same  numbers. ' ' 

' 'Jack ?  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  Jack 
Warner  sent  them?" 

Kitty  nodded  and  laughed  in  a  way  that 
implied  half  a  dozen  different  things. 

"But  I  thought  that  you  had  positively 
refused  him,  Kitty?" 

' '  Of  course  I  did  mamma — I  told  him  in 
the  nicest  kind  of  way  that  we  must  only 
be  dear  friends,  and  so  on. ' ' 

"Then  why  did  he  send  these  tickets?" 

' '  Why  do  moths  fly  round  a  candle  ?  It 
is  my  opinion  both  moths  and  men  enjoy 
burning. ' ' 

' '  Well,  Kitty,  I  don't  pretend  to  under- 
stand this  new-fashioned  way  of  being  '  off' 
and  'on'  with  a  lover  at  the  same  time. 
Did  you  take  me  from  papa  simply  to  tell 
me  this?' ' 

' '  No ;  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  like  to 
devote  a  few  moments  to  papa's  daughter. 
Papa  has  no  hair  to  crimp  and  no  braids  to 
make.  Here  are  all  the  hair-pins  ready, 
mamma,  and  I  will  tell  you  about  Sarah 
Cooper's  engagement  and  the  ridiculous 
new  dress  she  is  getting. ' ' 

It  is  to  be  supposed  the  bribe  proved  at- 
tractive enough,  for  Mrs.  Duffan  took  in 
hand  the  long  tresses,  and  Kitty  rattled 
7 


98  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

away  about  wedding  dresses  and  traveling 
suits  and  bridal  gifts  with  as  much  interest 
as  if  they  were  the  genuine  news  of  life, 
and  newspaper  intelligence  a  kind  of 
grown-up  fairy  lore. 

But  anyone  who  saw  the  hair  taken  out 
of  crimps  would  have  said  it  was  worth  the 
trouble  of  putting  it  in ;  and  the  face  was 
worth  the  hair,  and  the  hair  was  worth  the 
exquisite  hat  and  the  rich  seal-skins  and 
the  tantalizing  effects  of  glancing  silk  and 
beautiful  colors.  Depend  upon  it,  Kitty 
Duff  an  was  just  as  bright  and  bewitching  a 
life-sized  picture  as  anyone  could  desire  to 
see;  and  Tom  Duffan  thought  so,  as  she 
tripped  up  to  the  great  chair  in  which  he 
was  smoking  and  planning  subjects,  for  a 
"good-by"  kiss. 

"I  declare,  Kitty!  Turn  round,  will 
you?  Yes,  I  declare  you  are  dressed  in 
excellent  taste.  All  the  effects  are  good. 
I  wouldn't  have  believed  it." 

' '  Complimentary,  papa.  But  '  I  told  you 
so. '  You  just  quit  the  antique,  and  take 
to  studying  fiarper'sfiazarforeftects;  then 
your  women  will  look  a  little  more  natural. ' ' 

"Natural?  Jehoshaphat!  Go  way,  you 
little  fraud!" 

"I  appeal  to  Jack.  Jack,  just  look  at 
the  women  in  that  picture  of  papa's,  with 
the  white  sheets  draped  about  them.  What 
do  they  look  like?" 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  99 

11  Frights,  Miss  Kitty." 

' '  Of  course  they  do.     Now,  papa. ' ' 

"You  two  j^oung  barbarians!"  shouted 
Tom,  in  a  fit  of  laughter;  for  Jack  and 
Kitty  were  out  in  the  clear  frosty  air  by 
this  time,  with  the  fresh  wind  at  their 
backs,  and  their  faces  steadily  set  toward 
the  busy  bustle  and  light  of  Broadway. 
They  had  not  gone  far  when  Jack  said, 
anxiously,  "You  haven't  thought  any  bet- 
ter of  your  decision  last  Friday  night, 
Kitty,  I  am  afraid." 

"Why,  no,  Jack.  I  don't  see  how  I  can, 
unless  you  could  become  an  Indian  Com- 
missioner or  a  clerk  of  the  Treasury,  or 
something  of  that  kind.  You  know  I 
won't  marry  a  literary  man  under  any 
possible  circumstances.  I'm  clear  on  that 
subject,  Jack." 

"I  know  all  about  farming,  Kitty,  if 
that  would  do. ' ' 

' '  But  I  suppose  if  you  were  a  farmer,  we 
should  have  to  live  in  the  country.  I  am 
sure  that  would  not  do. ' ' 

Jack  did  not  see  how  the  city  and  farm 
could  be  brought  to  terms;  so  he  sighed, 
and  was  silent. 

Kitty  answered  the  sigh.  ' '  No  use  in 
bothering  about  me,  Jack.  You  ought  to 
be  very  glad  I  have  been  so  honest.  Some 
girls  would  have  'risked'you,  and  in  a  week 
you'd  have  been  just  as  miserable!" 


ioo  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"You  don't  dislike  me,  Kitty?" 

4 '  Not  at  all.    I  think  you  are  first-rate. ' ' 

"It  is  my  profession,  then?" 

"Exactly." 

' '  Now,  what  has  it  ever  done  to  offend 
you?" 

"Nothing  yet,  and  I  don't  mean  it  ever 
shall.  You  see,  I  know  Will  Hutton's  wife: 
and  what  that  woman  endures!  It's  just 
dreadful. ' ' 

"Now,  Kitty!" 

"It  is,  Jack.  Will  reads  all  his  fine 
articles  to  her,  wakes  her  up  at  nights  to 
listen  to  some  new  poem,  rushes  away  from 
the  dinner  table  to  jot  down  what  he  calls 
'an  idea,'  is  alwa}rs  pointing  out  'splendid 
passages'  to  her,  and  keeps  her  working 
just  like  a  slave  copying  his  manuscripts 
and  cutting  newspapers  to  pieces.  Oh,  it 
is  just  dreadful!" 

' '  But  she  thoroughly  enjoys  it. ' ' 

' '  Yes,  that  is  such  a  shame.  Will  has 
quite  spoiled  her.  Lucy  used  to  be  real 
nice,  a  jolly,  stylish  girl.  Before  she  was 
married  she  was  splendid  company;  now, 
you  might  just  as  well  mope  round  with  a 
book." 

' '  Kitty,  I'd  promise  upon  my  honor — at 
the  altar,  if  you  like — never  to  bother  you 
with  anything  I  write ;  never  to  say  a  word 
about  my  profession." 

' '  No,  no,  sir !     Then  you  would  soon  be 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  101 

finding  some  one  else  to  bother,  perhaps 
some  blonde,  sentimental,  intellectual 
'friend.'  What  is  the  use  of  turning  a 
good-natured  little  thing  like  me  into  a 
hateful  dog  in  the  manger?  I  am  not 
naturally  able  to  appreciate  you,  but  if  you 
were  mine,  I  should  snarl  and  bark  and 
bite  at  any  other  woman  who  was. ' ' 

Jack  liked  this  unchristian  sentiment 
very  much  indeed.  He  squeezed  Kitty's 
hand  and  looked  so  gratefully  into  her 
bright  face  that  she  was  forced  to  pretend 
he  had  ruined  her  glove. 

"I'll  buy  you  boxes  full,  Kitty;  and, 
darling,  I  am  not  very  poor;  I  am  quite  sure 
I  could  make  plenty  of  money  for  you. ' ' 

"Jack,  I  did  not  want  to  speak  about 
money ;  because,  if  a  girl  does  not  go  into 
raptures  about  being  willing  to  live  on 
crusts  and  dress  in  calicos  for  love,  people 
say  she's  mercenary.  Well,  then,  I  am 
mercenary.  I  want  silk  dresses  and  decent 
dinners  and  matinees,  and  I'm  fond  of  hav- 
ing things  regular;  it's  a  habit  of  mine  to 
like  them  all  the  time.  Now  I  know  liter- 
ary people  have  spasms  of  riches,  and  then 
spasms  of  poverty.  Artists  are  just  the 
same.  I  have  tried  poverty  occasionally, 
and  found  its  uses  less  desirable  than  some 
people  tell  us  they  are. ' ' 

' '  Have  you  decided  yet  whom  and  what 
you  will  marry,  Kitty?" 


IO2  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

1 '  No  sarcasm,  Jack.  I  shall  marry  the 
first  good  honest  fellow  that  loves  me  and 
has  a  steady  business,  and  who  will  not 
take  me  every  summer  to  see  views. ' ' 

'  'To  see  views?" 

' '  Yes.  I  am  sick  to  death  of  fine  scenery 
and  mountains,  'scarped  and  jagged  and 
rifted,'  and  all  other  kinds.  I've  seen  so 
many  grand  landscapes,  I  never  want  to 
see  another.  I  want  to  stay  at  the  Branch 
or  the  Springs,  and  have  nice  dresses  and  a 
hop  every  night.  And  you  know  papa  will 
go  to  some  lonely  place,  where  all  my 
toilettes  are  thrown  away,  and  where  there 
is  not  a  soul  to  speak  to  but  famous  men  of 
one  kind  or  another. ' ' 

Jack  couldn't  help  laughing;  but  they 
were  now  among  the  little  crush  that  gen- 
erally gathers  in  the  vestibule  of  a  theatre, 
and  whatever  he  meant  to  say  was  cut  in 
two  by  a  downright  hearty  salutation  from 
some  third  party. 

"Why,  Max,  when  did  you  get  home?" 

" To-day's  steamer."  Then  there  were 
introductions  and  a  jingle  of  merry  words 
and  smiles  that  blended  in  Kitty's  ears 
with  the  dreamy  music,  the  rustle  of 
dresses,  and  perfume  of  flowers,  and  the 
new-comer  was  gone. 

But  that  three  minutes'  interview  was  a 
wonderful  event  to  Kitty  DufTan,  though  she 
did  not  yet  realize  it.  The  stranger  had 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  103 

touched  her  as  she  had  never  been  touched 
before.  His  magnetic  voice  called  some- 
thing into  being  that  was  altogether  new  to 
her;  his  keen,  searching  gray  eyes  claimed 
what  she  could  neither  understand  nor 
withhold.  She  became  suddenly  silent  and 
thoughtful;  and  Jack,  who  was  learned  in 
love  lore,  saw  in  a  moment  that  Kitty  had 
fallen  in  love  with  his  friend  Max  Raymond. 

It  gave  him  a  moment's  bitter  pang;  but 
if  Kitty  was  not  for  him,  then  he  sincerely 
hoped  Max  might  win  her.  Yet  he  could 
not  have  told  whether  he  was  most  pleased 
or  angry  when  he  saw  Max  Raymond  coolly 
negotiate  a  change  of  seats  with  the  gentle- 
man on  Kitty's  right  hand,  and  take  pos- 
session of  Kitty's  eyes  and  ears  and  heart. 
But  there  is  a  great  deal  of  human  nature 
in  man,  and  Jack  behaved,  upon  the  whole, 
better  than  might  have  been  expected. 

For  once  Kitty  did  not  do  all  the  talking. 
Max  talked,  and  she  listened;  Max  gave 
opinions,  and  she  indorsed  them;  Max  de- 
cided, and  she  submitted.  It  was  not 
Jack's  Kitty  at  all.  He  was  quite  relieved 
when  she  turned  round  in  her  old  piquant 
way  and  snubbed  him. 

But  to  Kitty  it  was  a  wonderful  evening 
— those  grand  old  Romans  walking  on  and 
off  the  stage,  the  music  playing,  the  people 
applauding  and  the  calm,  stately  man  on 
her  right  hand  explaining  this  and  that, 


IO4  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

and  looking  into  her  eyes  in  such  a  deli- 
cious, perplexing  way  that  past  and  present 
were  all  mingled  like  the  waving  shadows 
of  a  wonderful  dream. 

She  was  in  love's  land  for  about  three 
hours ;  then  she  had  to  come  back  into  the 
cold  frosty  air,  the  veritable  streets,  and 
the  unmistakable  stone  houses.  But  it  was 
hardest  of  all  to  come  back  and  be  the  old 
radiant,  careless  Kitty. 

"Well,  pussy,  what  of  the  play?"  asked 

Tom  Duffan;  "you  cut 's  criticism 

short  this  morning.  Now,  what  is  yours?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know, papa.  The  play  was 
Shakespeare's,  and  Booth  and  Barrett 
backed  him  up  handsomely." 

"Very  fine  criticism  indeed,  Kitty.  I 
wish  Booth  and  Barrett  could  hear  it. ' ' 

' '  I  wish  they  could ;  but  I  am  tired  to 
death  now.  Good  night,  papa ;  good  night, 
mamma.  I'll  talk  for  twenty  in  the 
morning." 

' '  What '  s  the  matter  with  Kitty,  mother  ? ' ' 

"Jack  Warner,  I  expect." 

' '  Hum !     I  don '  t  think  so. " 

"Men  don't  know  everything,  Tom." 

"They  don't  know  anything  about 
women ;  their  best  efforts  in  that  line  are 
only  guesses  at  truth. ' ' 

"Go  to  bed,  Tom  Duff  an;  you  are  get- 
ting prosy  and  ridiculous.  Kitty  will  ex- 
plain herself  in  the  morning." 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  105 

But  Kitty  did  not  explain  herself,  and 
she  daily  grew  more  and  more  inexplicable. 
She  began  to  read :  Max  brought  the  books, 
and  she  read  them.  She  began  to  practice: 
Max  liked  music,  and  wanted  to  sing  with 
her.  She  stopped  crimping  her  hair:  Max 
said  it  was  unnatural  and  inartistic.  She 
went  to  scientific  lectures  and  astronomical 
lectures  and  literary  societies:  Max  took 
her. 

Tom  Duffan  did  not  quite  like  the 
change,  for  Tom  was  of  that  order  of  men 
who  love  to  put  their  hearts  and  necks 
under  a  pretty  woman's  foot.  He  had  been 
so  long  used  to  Kitty  dominant,  to  Kitty 
sarcastic,  to  Kitty  willful,  to  Kitty  ab- 
solute, that  he  could  not  understand  the 
new  Kitty. 

"I  do  not  think  our  little  girl  is  quite 
well,  mother,"  he  said  one  day,  after  study- 
ing his  daughter  reading  the  Endymion 
without  a  yawn. 

"Tom,  if  you  can't  'think'  to  better  pur- 
pose, you  had  better  go  on  painting.  Kitty 
is  in  love. ' ' 

"First  time  I  ever  saw  love  make  a 
woman  studious  and  sensible." 

' '  They  are  uncommon  symptoms ;  never- 
theless, Kitty's  in  love.  Poor  child!" 

"With  whom?" 

"Max  Raymond;"  and  the  mother 
dropped  her  eyes  upon  the  ruffle  she  was 


io6  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

pleating  for  Kitty's  dress,  while  Tom 
Duffan  accompanied  the  new-born  thought 
with  his  favorite  melody. 

Thus  the  winter  passed  quickly  and  hap- 
pily away.  Greatly  to  Kitty's  delight,  be- 
fore its  close  Jack  found  the  "blonde, 
sentimental,  intellectual  friend, ' '  who  could 
appreciate  both  him  and  his  writings;  and 
the  two  went  to  housekeeping  in  what  Kitty 
called  "a  large  dry -goods  box."  The 
merry  little  wedding  was  the  last  event  of  a 
late  spring,  and  when  it  was  over  the  sum- 
mer quarters  were  an  imperative  question. 

"I  really  don't  know  what  to  do, 
mother,"  said  Tom.  "Kitty  vowed  she 
would  not  go  to  the  Peak  this  year,  and  I 
scarcely  know  how  to  get  along  without  it. ' ' 

"Oh,  Kitty  will  go.  Max  Raymond  has 
quarters  at  the  hotel  lower  down." 

"Oh,  oh!     I'll  tease  the  little  puss." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Tom, 
unless  you  want  to  go  to  Cape  May  or  the 
Branch.  They  both  imagine  their  motives 
undiscovered;  but  you  just  let  Kitty  know 
that  you  even  suspect  them,  and  she  won't 
stir  a  step  in  your  direction. " 

Here  Kitty,  entering  the  room,  stopped 
the  conversation.  She  had  a  pretty  lawn 
suit  on,  and  a  Japanese  fan  in  her  hand. 
"Lawn  and  fans,  Kitty,"  said  Tom:  "time 
to  leave  the  city.  Shall  we  go  to  the 
Branch,  or  Saratoga?" 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  107 

"Now,  papa,  you  know  you  are  joking; 
you  always  go  to  the  Peak." 

1  'But  I  am  going  with  you  to  the  seaside 
this  summer,  Kitty.  I  wish  my  little 
daughter  to  have  her  whim  for  once. ' ' 

"You  are  better  than  there  is  any  occa- 
sion for,  papa.  I  don't  want  either  the 
Branch  or  Saratoga  this  year.  Sarah 
Cooper  is  at  the  Branch  with  her  snobby 
little  husband  and  her  extravagant  toilettes; 
I'm  not  going  to  be  patronized  by  her. 
And  Jack  and  his  learned  lady  are  at  Sara- 
toga. I  don't  want  to  make  Mrs.  Warner 
jealous,  but  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  help  it.  I 
think  you  had  better  keep  me  out  of  temp- 
tation. ' ' 

"Where  must  we  go,  then?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  we  might  as  well  go  to 
the  Peak.  I  shall  not  want  many  new 
dresses  there;  and  then,  papa,  you  are  so 
good  to  me  all  the  time,  you  deserve  your 
own  way  about  your  holiday. ' ' 

And  Tom  Duffan  said,  "Thank  you, 
Kitty  "  in  such  a  peculiar  way  that  Kitty 
lost  all  her  wits,  blushed  crimson,  dropped 
her  fan,  and  finally  left  the  room  with  the 
lamest  of  excuses.  And  then  Mrs.  Duffan 
said,  "Tom,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself !  If  men  know  a  thing  past  ordi- 
nary, they  must  blab  it,  either  with  a  look 
or  a  word  or  a  letter;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
Kitty  told  you  to-night  she  was  going  to 


io8  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

the  Branch,  and  asked  you  for  a  $500  check 
— serve  you  right,  too. ' ' 

But  if  Kitty  had  any  such  intentions, 
Max  Raymond  changed  them.  Kitty  went 
very  sweetly  to  the  Peak,  and  two  days 
afterward  Max  Raymond,  straying  up  the 
hills  with  his  fishing  rod,  strayed  upon 
Tom  Duffan,  sketching.  Max  did  a  great 
deal  of  fishing  that  summer,  and  at  the  end 
of  it  Tom  Duff  an 's  pretty  daughter  was  in- 
extricably caught.  She  had  no  will  but 
Max's  will,  and  no  way  but  his  way.  She 
had  promised  him  never  to  marry  any  one 
but  him;  she  had  vowed  she  would  love 
him,  and  only  him,  to  the  end  of  her  life. 

All  these  obligations  without  a  shadow 
or  a  doubt  from  the  prudent  little  body. 
Yet  she  knew  nothing  of  Max's  family  or 
antecedents;  she  had  taken  his  appearance 
and  manners,  and  her  father's  and  mother's 
respectful  admission  of  his  friendship,  as 
guarantee  sufficient.  She  remembered  that 
Jack,  that  first  night  in  the  theatre,  had 
said  something  about  studying  law  to- 
gether; and  with  these  items,  and  the  satis- 
factory fact  that  he  always  had  plenty  of 
money,  Kitty  had  given  her  whole  heart, 
without  conditions  and  without  hostages. 

Nor  would  she  mar  the  placid  measure  of 
her  content  by  questioning ;  it  was  enough 
that  her  father  and  mother  were  satisfied 
with  her  choice.  When  they  returned  to 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  109 

the  city,  congratulations,  presents  and  pre- 
parations filled  every  hour.  Kitty's  im- 
portance gave  her  back  a  great  deal  of  her 
old  dictatorial  way.  In  the  matter  of 
toilettes  she  would  not  suffer  even  Max  to 
interfere.  ''Results  were  all  men  had  to 
do  with,"  she  said;  "everything  was  in- 
artistic to  them  but  a  few  yards  of  linen 
and  a  straight  petticoat." 

Max  sighed  over  the  flounces  and  flutings 
and  lace  and  ribbons,  and  talked  about 
''unadorned  beauty;"  and  then,  when  Kitty 
exhibited  results,  went  into  rhapsodies  of 
wonder  and  admiration.  Kitty  was  very 
triumphant  in  those  days,  but  a  little  drop 
of  mortification  was  in  store  for  her.  She 
was  exhibiting  all  her  pretty  things  one 
day  to  a  friend,  whose  congratulations 
found  their  climax  in  the  following  state- 
ment: 

"Really,  Kitty,  a  most  beautiful  ward- 
robe! and  such  an  extraordinary  piece  of 
luck  for  such  a  little  scatter-brain  as  you! 
Why,  they  do  say  that  Mr.  Raymond's  last 
book  is  just  wonderful." 

'  'Mr.  Raymond' s  last  book  /"  And  Kitty 
let  the  satin-lined  morocco  case,  with  all  its 
ruby  treasures,  fall  from  her  hand. 

"Why,  haven't  you  read  it,  dear?  So 
clever,  and  all  that,  dear. ' ' 

Kitty  had  tact  enough  to  turn  the  con- 
versation; but  just  as  soon  as  her  visitor 


no  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

had  gone,  she  faced  her  mother,  with  blaz- 
ing eyes  and  cheeks,  and  said,  "What  is 
Max's  business — a  lawyer?" 

"Gracious,  Kitty!     What's  the  matter? 
He  is  a  scientist,  a  professor,  and  a  great — ' ' 
'Writer?" 
'Yes." 

'  Writes  books  and  magazine  articles  and 
th  ngs?" 
'Yes." 

Kitty  thought  profoundly  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  said,  " I  thought  so.  I  wish 
Jack  Warner  was  at  home. ' ' 

"What  for?' 

"Only  a  little  matter  I  should  like  to 
have  out  with  him;  but  it  will  keep." 

Jack,  however,  went  South  without  visit- 
ing New  York,  and  when  he  returned, 
pretty  Kitty  Duffan  had  been  Mrs.  Max 
Raymond  for  two  years.  His  first  visit 
was  to  Tom  Duff  an 's  parlor- studio.  He  was 
painting  and  singing  and  chatting  to  his 
wife  as  usual.  It  was  so  like  old  times  that 
Jack's  eyes  filled  at  the  memory  when  he 
asked  where  and  how  was  Mrs.  Raymond. 

"Oh,  the  professor  had  bought  a  beauti- 
ful place  eight  miles  from  the  city.  Kitty 
and  he  preferred  the  country.  Would  he 
go  and  see  them  ? ' ' 

Certainly  Jack  would  go.  To  tell  the 
truth,  he  was  curious  to  see  what  other 
miracles  matrimony  had  wrought  upon 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  1 1 1 

Kitty.  So  he  went,  and  came  back  won- 
dering. 

"Really,  dear,"  says  Mrs.  Jack  Warner, 
the  next  day,  "how  does  the  professor  get 
along  with  that  foolish,  ignorant  little 
wife  of  his?" 

"Get  along  with  her?  Why,  he  couldn't 
get  along  without  her !  She  sorts  his  papers, 
makes  his  notes  and  quotations,  answers 
his  letters,  copies  his  manuscripts,  swears 
by  all  he  thinks  and  says  and  does,  through 
thick  and  thin,  by  day  and  night.  It's 
wonderful,  by  Jove !  I  felt  spiteful  enough 
to  remind  her  that  she  had  once  vowed  that 
nothing  on  earth  should  ever  induce  her  to 
marry  a  writer. ' ' 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  turned  round  in  her  old  saucy 
manner,  and  answered,  'Jack  Warner,  you 
are  as  dark  as  ever.  I  did  not  marry  the 
writer,  I  married  the  man.'  Then  I  said,  'I 
suppose  all  this  study  and  reading  and 
writing  is  your  offering  toward  the  advance- 
ment of  science  and  social  regeneration?'  " 

"What  then?" 

'  'She  laughed  in  a  very  provoking  way, 
and  said,  'Dark  again,  Jack;  it  is  a  labor 
of  love.'  " 

"Well  I  never!" 

"Nor  I  either." 


112  Winter  Evening  Tales. 


THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  WIND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"As  a  city  broken  down  and  without  walls,  so  is 
he  that  hath  no  rule  over  his  own  spirit. ' ' 

' '  My  soul !  Master  Jesus,  my  soul ! 

My  soul ! 

Dar's  a  little  thing  lays  in  my  heart, 
An'  de  more  I  dig  him  de  better  he  spring: 

My  soul ! 

Dar's  a  little  thing  lays  in  my  heart 
An'  he  sets  my  soul  on  fire: 

My  soul ! 
Master  Jesus,  my  soul !  my  soul ! ' ' 

The  singer  was  a  negro  man,  with  a  very 
black  but  very  kindly  face;  and  he  was 
hoeing  corn  in  the  rich  bottom  lands  of  the 
San  Gabriel  river  as  he  chanted  his  joyful 
little  melody.  It  was  early  in  the  morning, 
yet  he  rested  on  his  hoe  and  looked  anx- 
iously toward  the  cypress  swamp  on  his  left 
hand. 

"I'se  mighty  weary  'bout  Massa  Davie; 
he'll  get  himself  into  trouble  ef  he  stay  dar 
much  longer.  Ole  massa  might  be  'long 
most  any  time  now."  He  communed  with 
himself  in  this  strain  for  about  five  min- 
utes, and  then  threw  his  hoe  across  his 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  113 

shoulder,  and  picked  a  road  among  the 
hills  of  growing  corn  until  he  passed  out  of 
the  white  dazzling  light  of  the  field  into 
the  grey-green  shadows  of  the  swamp. 
Threading  his  way  among  the  still  black 
bayous,  he  soon  came  to  a  little  clearing  in 
the  cypress. 

Here  a  young  man  was  standing  in  an 
attitude  of  expectancy — a  very  handsome 
man  clothed  in  the  picturesque  costume  of 
a  ranchero.  He  leaned  upon  his  rifle,  but  be- 
trayed both  anger  and  impatience  in  the  rapid 
switching  to  and  fro  of  his  riding-whip. 
''Plato,  she  has  not  come!"  He  said  it 
reproachfully,  as  if  the  negro  was  to  blame. 

' '  I  done  tole  you,  Massa  Davie,  dat  Miss 
Lulu  neber  do  noffing  ob  dat  kind;  ole 
massa  'ticlarly  objects  to  Miss  Lulu  seeing 
you  at  de  present  time. ' ' 

"My  father  objects  to  every  one  I  like." 

"Ef  Massa  Davie  jist  'lieve  it,  ole  massa 
want  ebery  thing  for  his  good. ' ' 

"You  oversize  that  statement  consider- 
ably, Plato.  Tell  my  father,  if  he  asks  you, 
that  I  am  going  with  Jim  Whaley,  and  give 
Miss  Lulu  this  letter.  " 

"I  done  promise  ole  massa  neber  to  gib 
Miss  Lulu  any  letter  or  message  from  you, 
Massa  Davie." 

In  a  moment  the  youth's  handsome  face 
was  flaming  with  ungovernable  passion,  and 
he  lifted  his  riding-whip  to  strike. 
8 


H4  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"For  de  Lord  Jesus'  sake  don't  strike, 
Massa  Davie !  Dese  arms  done  carry  you 
when  you  was  de  littlest  little  chile.  Don't 
strike  me!" 

"I  should  be  a  brute  if  I  did,  Plato;"  but 
the  blow  descended  upon  the  trunk  of  the 
tree  against  which  he  had  been  leaning, 
with  terrible  force.  Then  David  Lorimer 
went  striding  through  the  swamp,  his  great 
bell  spurs  chiming  to  his  uneven,  crashing 
tread. 

Plato  looked  sorrowfully  after  him. 
"Poor  Massa  Davie!  He's  got  de  drefful 
temper;  got  it  each  side  ob  de  house — 
father  and  mother,  bofe.  I  hope  de  good 
Massa  above  will  make  'lowances  for  de 
young  man — got  it  bofe  ways,  he  did." 
And  he  went  thoughtfully  back  to  his  work, 
murmuring  hopes  and  apologies  for  the  man 
he  loved,  with  all  the  forgiving  unselfish- 
ness of  a  prayer  in  them. 

In  some  respects  Plato  was  right.  David 
Lorimer  had  inherited,  both  from  father 
and  mother,  an  unruly  temper.  His  father 
was  a  vScot,  dour  and  self-willed ;  his  mother 
had  been  a  Spanish  woman,  of  San  Antonio 
— a  daughter  of  the  grandee  family  of 
Yturris.  Their  marriage  had  not  been  a 
happy  one,  and  the  fiery  emotional  Southern 
woman  had  fretted  her  life  away  against 
the  rugged  strength  of  the  will  which  op- 
posed hers.  Dav:d  remembered  his  mother 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  115 

well,  and  idolized  her  memory;  right  or 
wrong,  he  had  always  espoused  her  quarrel, 
and  when  she  died  she  left,  between  father 
and  son,  a  great  gulf. 

He  had  been  hard  to  manage  then,  but 
at  twenty-two  he  was  beyond  all  control, 
excepting  such  as  his  cousin,  Lulu  Yturri, 
exercised  over  him.  But  this  love,  the 
most  pure  and  powerful  influence  he  ac- 
knowledged, had  been  positively  forbidden. 
The  elder  Lorimer  declared  that  there  had 
been  too  much  Spanish  blood  in  the  family ; 
and  it  is  likely  his  motives  commended 
themselves  to  his  own  conscience.  It  was 
certain  that  the  mere  exertion  of  his  will  in 
the  matter  gave  him  a  pleasure  he  would 
not  forego.  Yet  he  was  theoretically  a 
religious  man,  devoted  to  the  special  creed 
he  approved,  and  rigidly  observing  such 
forms  of  worship  as  made  any  part  of  it. 
But  the  law  of  love  had  never  yet  been  re- 
vealed to  him;  he  had  feared  and  trembled 
at  the  fiery  Mount  of  Sinai,  but  he  had  not 
yet  drawn  near  to  the  tenderer  influences 
of  Calvary. 

He  was  a  rich  man  also.  Broad  acres 
waved  with  his  corn  and  cotton,  and  he 
counted  his  cattle  on  the  prairies  by  tens  of 
thousand's ;  but  nothing  in  his  mode  of  life 
indicated  wealth.  The  log-house,  stretch- 
ing itself  out  under  gigantic  trees,  was  of 
the  usual  style  of  Texan  architecture — 


n6  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

broad  passages  between  every  room,  sweep- 
ing from  front  to  rear;  and  low  piazzas, 
festooned  with  flowery  vines,  shading  it  on 
every  side.  All  around  it,  under  the  live 
oaks,  were  scattered  the  negro  cabins,  their 
staring  whitewash  looking  picturesque 
enough  under  the  hanging  moss  and  dark 
green  foliage.  But,  simple  as  the  house 
was,  it  was  approached  by  lordly  avenues, 
shaded  with  black-jack  and  sweet  gum  and 
chincapin,  interwoven  with  superb  mag- 
nolias and  gorgeous  tulip  trees. 

The  Scot  in  a  foreign  country,  too,  often 
steadily  cultivates  his  national  peculiarities. 
James  Lorimer  was  a  Scot  of  this  type.  As 
far  as  it  was  possible  to  do  so  in  that  sun- 
shiny climate,  he  introduced  the  grey, 
sombre  influence  of  the  land  of  mists  and 
east  winds.  His  household  was  ruled  with 
stern  gravity;  his  ranch  was  a  model  of 
good  management ;  and  though  few  affected 
his  society,  he  was  generally  relied  upon 
and  esteemed;  for,  though  opinionated, 
egotistical,  and  austere,  there  was  about 
him  a  grand  honesty  and  a  sense  of 
strength  that  would  rise  to  every  occasion. 

And  so  great  is  the  influence  of  any 
genuine  nature,  that  David  loved  his  father 
in  a  certain  fashion.  The  creed 'he  held 
was  a  hard  one;  but  when  he  called  his 
family  and  servants  together,  and  unflinch- 
ingly taught  it,  David,  even  in  his  wTorst 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  117 

moods,  was  impressed  with  his  sincerity 
and  solemnity.  There  was  between  them 
plenty  of  ground  on  which  they  could  have 
stood  hand  in  hand,  and  learned  to  love  one 
another;  but  a  passionate  authority  on  the 
one  hand,  and  a  passionate  independence 
on  the  other,  kept  them  far  apart. 

Shortly  before  my  story  opens  there  had 
been  a  more  stubborn  quarrel  than  usual, 
and  James  Lorimer  had  forbidden  his  son  to 
enter  his  house  until  he  chose  to  humble  him- 
self to  his  father's  authority.  Then  David 
joined  Jim  Whaley,  a  great  cattle  drover, 
and  in  a  week  they  were  on  the  road  to  New 
Mexico  with  a  herd  of  eight  thousand. 

This  news  greatly  distressed  James  Lori- 
mer. He  loved  his  son  better  than  he  was 
aware  of.  There  was  a  thousand  deaths 
upon  such  a  road ;  there  was  a  moral  danger 
in  the  companionship  attending  such  a 
business,  which  he  regarded  with  positive 
horror.  The  drove  had  left  two  days  when 
he  heard  of  its  departure ;  but  such  droves 
travel  slowly,  and  he  could  overtake  it  if 
he  wished  to  do  so.  As  he  sat  in  the  moon- 
light that  night,  smoking,  he  thought  the 
thing  over  until  he  convinced  himself  that 
he  ought  to  overtake  it.  Even  if  Davie 
would  not  return  with  him,  he  could  tell 
him  of  his  danger,  and  urge  him  to  his  duty 
and  thus,  at  any  rate,  relieve  his  own  con- 
science of  a  burden. 


1  1  8  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Arriving  at  this  conclusion,  he  looked 
up  and  saw  his  niece  Lulu  leaning  against 
one  of  the  white  pilasters  supporting  the 
piazza.  He  regarded  her  a  moment  curi- 
ously, as  one  may  look  at  a  lovely  picture. 
The  pale,  sensitive  face,  the  swaying, 
graceful  figure,  the  flowing  white  robe,  the 
roses  at  her  girdle,  were  all  sharply  revealed 
by  the  bright  moonlight,  and  nothing 
beautiful  in  them  escaped  his  notice.  He 
was  just  enough  to  admit  that  the  tempta- 
tion to  love  so  fair  a  woman  must  have 
been  a  great  one  to  David.  He  had  him- 
self fallen  into  just  such  a  bewitching 
snare,  and  he  believed  it  to  be  his  duty  to 
prevent  a  recurrence  of  his  own  married 
life  at  any  sacrifice. 


"Yes,  uncle." 

"Have  you  spoken  with  or  written  to 
Davie  lately?" 

"Not  since  you  forbid  me." 

He  said  no  more.  He  began  wondering 
if,  after  all,  the  girl  would  not  have  been 
better  than  Jim  Whaley.  In  a  dim  way  it 
struck  him  that  people  for  ever  interfering 
with  destiny  do  not  always  succeed  in  their 
intentions.  It  was  an  unusual  and  un- 
practical vein  of  thought  for  James  Lori- 
mer,  and  he  put  it  uneasily  away.  Still 
over  and  over  came  back  the  question, 
"What  if  Lulu's  influence  would  have  been 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  119 

sufficient  to  have  kept  David  from  the  wild 
reckless  men  with  whom  he  was  now  con- 
sorting?" For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
consciously  admitted  to  himself  that  he 
might  have  made  a  mistake. 

The  next  morning  he  was  early  in  the  sad- 
dle. The  sky  was  blue  and  clear,  the  air  full 
of  the  fresh  odor  of  earth  and  clover  and 
wild  flowers.  The  swallows  were  making 
a  jubilant  twitter,  the  larks  singing  on  the 
edge  of  the  prairie — the  glorious  prairie, 
which  the  giants  of  the  unflooded  world 
had  cleared  off  and  leveled  for  the  dwelling- 
place  of  Liberty.  In  his  own  way  he  en- 
joyed the  scene;  but  he  could  not,  as  he 
usually  did,  let  the  peace  of  it  sink  into  his 
heart.  He  had  suddenly  become  aware 
that  he  had  an  unpleasant  duty  to  perform, 
and  to  shirk  a  duty  was  a  thing  impossible 
to  him.  Until  he  had  obeyed  the  voice  of 
Conscience,  all  other  voices  would  fail  to 
arrest  his  interest  or  attention. 

He  rode  on  at  a  steady  pace,  keeping  the 
track  very  easily,  and  thinking  of  Lulu  in 
a  persistent  way  that  was  annoying  to  him. 
Hitherto  he  had  given  her  very  little 
thought.  Half  reluctantly  he  had  taken 
her  into  his  household  when  she  was  four 
years  of  age,  and  she  had  grown  up  there 
with  almost  as  little  care  as  the  vines  which 
year  by  }^ear  clambered  higher  over  the 
piazzas.  As  for  her  beauty  he  had  thought 


I2O  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

no  more  of  it  than  he  did  of  the  beauty  of 
the  magnolias  which  sheltered  his  door- 
step. Mrs.  Lorimer  had  loved  her  niece, 
and  he  had  not  interfered  with  the  affec- 
tion. They  were  both  Yturris;  it  was 
natural  that  they  should  understand  one 
another. 

But  his  son  was  of  a  different  race,  and 
the  inheritor  of  his  own  traditions  and  pre- 
judices. A  Scot  from  his  own  countryside 
had  recently  settled  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  at  the  Sabbath  gathering  he  had  seen 
and  approved  his  daughter.  To  marry  his 
son  David  to  Jessie  Kennedy  appeared  to 
him  a  most  desirable  thing,  and  he  had 
considered  its  advantages  until  he  could 
not  bear  to  relinquish  the  idea.  But  when 
both  fathers  had  settled  the  matter,  David 
had  met  the  question  squarely,  and  declared 
he  would  marry  no  woman  but  his  cousin 
Lulu.  It  was  on  this  subject  father  and 
son  had  quarrelled  and  parted;  but  for  all 
that,  James  Lorimer  could  not  see  his  only 
son  taking  a  high  road  to  ruin,  and  not 
make  an  effort  to  save  him. 

At  sundown  he  rested  a  little,  but  the 
trail  was  so  fresh  he  determined  to  ride  on. 
He  might  reach  David  while  they  were 
camping,  and  then  he  could  talk  matters 
over  with  more  ease  and  freedom.  Near 
midnight  the  great  white  Texas  moon 
flooded  everything  with  a  light  wondrously 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  121 

soft,  but  clear  as  day,  and  he  easily  found 
Whaley's  camp — a  ten-acre  patch  of  grass 
on  the  summit  of  some  low  hills. 

The  cattle  had  all  settled  for  the  night, 
and  the  "watch"  of  eight  men  were  slowly 
riding  in  a  circle  around  them.  Lorimer 
was  immediately  challenged;  and  he  gave 
his  name  and  asked  to  see  the  captain. 
Whaley  rose  at  once,  and  confronted  him 
with  a  cool,  civil  movement  of  his  hand  to 
his  hat.  Then  Lorimer  observed  the  man 
as  he  had  never  done  before.  He  was  evi- 
dently not  a  person  to  be  trifled  with. 
There  was  a  fixed  look  about  him,  and  a 
deliberate  coolness,  sufficiently  indicating 
a  determined  character ;  and  a  belt  around 
his  waist  supported  a  six-shooter  and  re- 
vealed the  glittering  hilt  of  a  bowie  knife. 

"Captain,  good  night.  I  wish  to  speak 
with  my  son,  David  Lorimer. " 

"Wall,  sir,  you  can't  do  it,  not  by  no 
manner  of  means,  just  yet.  David  Lorimer 
is  on  watch  till  midnight. ' ' 

He  was  perfectly  civil,  but  there  was 
something  particularly  irritating  in  the  way 
Whaley  named  David  Lorimer.  So  the 
two  men  sat  almost  silent  before  the  camp 
fire  until  midnight.  Then  Whaley  said, 
"Mr.  Lorimer,  your  son  is  at  liberty  now. 
You'll  excuse  me  saying  that  the  shorter 
you  make  your  palaver  the  better  it  will 
suit  me. ' ' 


122  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Lorimer  turned  angrily,  but  Whaley  was 
walking  carelessly  away;  and  the  retort 
that  rose  to  his  lips  was  not  one  to  be 
shouted  after  a  man  of  Whaley 's  desperate 
character  with  safety.  As  his  son  ap- 
proached him  he  was  conscious  of  a  thrill 
of  pleasure  in  the  young  man's  appearance. 

Physically,  he  was  all  he  could  desire. 
No  Lorimer  that  ever  galloped  through 
Eskdale  had  the  national  peculiarities  more 
distinctively.  He  was  the  tall,  fair  Scot, 
and  his  father  complacently  compared  his 
yellow  hair  and  blue  eyes  with  the  ''dark, 
deil-like  beauty"  of  Whaley. 

"Davie, "  and  he  held  out  his  hand 
frankly,  "I  hae  come  to  tak  ye  back  to 
your  ain  hame.  Let  byganes  be  byganes, 
and  we'll  start  a  new  chapter  o'  life,  my 
lad.  Ye '11  try  to  be  a  gude  son,  and  I'll 
aye  be  a  gude  father  to  ye. ' ' 

It  was  a  great  deal  for  James  Lorimer  to 
say ;  and  David  quite  appreciated  the  con- 
cession, but  he  answered — 

' 'Lulu,  father  ?     I  cannot  give  her  up. * ' 

"Weel,  weel,  if  ye  are  daft  to  marry  a 
strange  woman,  ye  must  e'en  do  sae.  It  is 
an  auld  sin,  and  there  have  aye  been 
daughters  o'  Heth  to  plague  honest  houses 
wi'.  But  sit  down,  my  lad;  I  came  to  talk 
wi'  ye  anent  some  decenter  way  of  life  than 
this." 

The  talk  was  not  altogether  a  pleasant 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  123 

one;  but  both  yielded  something,  and  it 
was  finally  agreed  that  as  soon  as  Whaley 
could  pick  up  a  man  to  fill  Davie's  place 
Davie  should  return  home.  Lorimer  did 
not  linger  after  this  decision.  Whaley 's 
behavior  had  offended  him  and  without  the 
ceremony  of  a  ' '  good-bye, ' '  he  turned  his 
horse's  head  eastward  again. 

Picking  up  a  man  was  not  easy;  they 
certainly  had  several  offers  from  emigrants 
going  west,  and  from  Mexicans  on  the 
route,  but  Whaley  seemed  determined  not 
to  be  pleased.  He  disliked  Lorimer  and 
was  deeply  offended  at  him  interfering  with 
his  arrangements.  Every  day  that  he  kept 
David  was  a  kind  of  triumph  to  him.  "He 
might  as  well  have  asked  me  how  I'd  like 
my  drivers  decoyed  away.  I  like  a  man  to 
be  on  the  square, ' '  he  grumbled.  And  he 
said  these  and  similar  things  so  often,  that 
David  began  to  feel  it  impossible  to  restrain 
his  temper. 

Anger,  fed  constantly  by  spiteful  remarks 
and  small  injustices,  grows  rapidly;  and  as 
they  approached  the  Apache  mountains,  the 
men  began  to  notice  a  fixed  tightening  of 
the  lips,  and  a  stern  blaze  in  the  young 
Scot's  eyes,  which  Whaley  appeared  to  de- 
light in  intensifying. 

"Thar'll  be  mischief  atween  them  two 
afore  long,"  remarked  an  old  drover; 
''Lorimer  is  gittin'  to  hate  the  captain  with 


124  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

such  a  vim  that  he's  no  appetite  for  his 
food  left." 

"  It'll  be  a  fair  fight,  and  one  or  both '11 
get  upped;  that's  about  it." 

At  length  they  met  a  party  of  returning 
drovers,  and  half  a  dozen  men  among  them 
were  willing  to  take  David '  s  place.  Whaley 
had  no  longer  any  pretence  for  detaining 
him.  They  were  at  the  time  between  two 
long,  low  spurs  of  hills,  enclosing  a  rich 
narrow  valley,  deep  with  ripened  grass, 
gilded  into  flickering  gold  by  the  sun  and 
the  dewless  summer  days.  All  the  lower 
ridges  were  savagely  bald  and  hot — a  glen 
paved  with  gold  and  walled  with  iron.  Oh, 
how  the  sun  did  beat  and  shiver,  and  shake 
down  into  the  breathless  valley ! 

The  cattle  were  restless,  and  the  men  had 
had  a  hard  day.  David  was  weary;  his 
heart  was  not  in  the  work ;  he  was  glad  it 
was  his  last  watch.  It  began  at  ten  o'clock, 
and  would  end  at  midnight.  The  weather 
was  gloomy,  and  the  few  stars  which  shone 
between  the  rifts  of  driving  clouds  just 
served  to  outline  the  mass  of  sleeping  cattle. 

The  air  also  was  surcharged  with  elec- 
tricity, though  there  had  been  no  lightning. 

"I  wouldn't  wonder  ef  we  have  a 'run' 
to-night,"  said  one  of  the  men.  "I've  seen 
a  good  many  stampedes,  and  they  allays 
happens  on  such  nights  as  this  one." 

"Nonsense!"    replied     David.       "If     a 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  125 

cayote  frightens  one  in  a  drove  the  panic 
spreads  to  all.  Any  night  would  do  for  a 
'run.'  " 

"  'Taint  so,  L,orimer.  Ef  you've  a  drove 
of  one  thousand  or  of  ten  thousand  it's  all 
the  same;  the  panic  strikes  every  beast  at 
the  same  moment.  It's  somethin'  in  the 
air;  'taint  my  business  to  know  what.  But 
you  look  like  a  'run'  yourself,  restless  and 
hot,  and  as  ef  somethin'  was  gitting  'the 
inad'  up  in  you.  I  noticed  Whaley  is  'bout 
the  same.  I'd  keep  clear  of  him,  ef  I  was 
you. ' ' 

"No,  I  won't.  He  owes  me  money,  and 
I'll  make  him  pay  me!" 

"Don't!  Thar,  I've  warned  you,  David 
Lorimer,  and  that  let's  me  out.  Take  your 
own  way  now." 

For  half  an  hour  David  pondered  this 
caution,  and  something  in  his  own  heart 
seconded  it.  But  when  the  trial  of  his 
temper  came  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  every 
monition.  Whaley  went  swaggering  by 
him,  and  as  he  passed  issued  an  unneces- 
sary order  in  a  very  insolent  manner. 
David  asked  pointedly,  "Were  you  speak- 
ing to  me,  Captain?" 

"I  was." 

"Then  don't  you  dare  to  do  it  again,  sir; 
never,  as  long  as  you  live!" 

Before  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth, 
every  one  of  the  drove  of  eight  thousand 


126  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

were  on  their  feet  like  a  flash  of  lightning; 
every  one  of  them  exactly  at  the  same  in- 
stant. With  a  rush  like  a  whirlwind  level- 
ing a  forest,  they  were  off  in  the  darkness. 

The  wild  clatter,  the  crackling  of  a  river 
of  horns,  and  the  thundering  of  hoofs,  was 
deafening.  Whaley,  seeing  eighty  thou- 
sand dollars'  worth  of  cattle  running  away 
from  him,  turned  with  a  fierce  imprecation, 
and  gave  David  a  passionate  order  "to  ride 
up  to  the  leaders, ' '  and  then  he  sprang  for 
his  own  mule. 

David's  time  was  now  fully  out,  and  he 
drew  his  horse's  rein  tight  and  stood  still. 

' ' Coward !' '  screamed  Whaley ;  '  'try  and 
forget  for  an  hour  that  you  have  Spanish 
blood  in  you. ' ' 

A  pistol  shot  answered  the  taunt. 
Whaley  staggered  a  second,  then  fell  with- 
out a  word.  The  whole  scene  had  not  oc- 
cupied a  minute ;  but  it  was  a  minute  that 
branded  itself  on  the  soul  of  David  Lorimer. 
He  gazed  one  instant  on  the  upturned  face 
of  his  slain  enemy,  and  then  gave  himself 
up  to  the  wild  passion  of  the  pursuit. 

By  the  spectral  starlight  he  could  see  the 
cattle  outlined  as  a  black,  clattering,  thun- 
dering stream,  rushing  wildly  on,  and  every 
instant  becoming  wilder.  But  David's 
horse  had  been  trained  in  the  business;  he 
knew  wThat  the  matter  was,  and  scarce 
needed  any  guiding.  Dashing  along  by 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  127 

the  side  of  the  stampede,  they  soon  over- 
took the  leaders  and  joined  the  men,  who 
were  gradually  pushing  against  the  foremost 
cattle  on  the  left  so  as  to  turn  them  to  the 
right.  When  once  the  leaders  were  turned 
the  rest  blindly  followed  and  thus,  by  con- 
stantly turning  them  to  the  right,  the 
leaders  were  finally  swung  clear  around, 
and  overtook  the  fag  end  of  the  line. 

Then  they  rushed  around  in  a  circle,  the 
centre  of  "which  soon  closed  up,  and  they 
were  "milling;"  that  is,  they  had  formed 
a  solid  wheel,  and  were  going  round  and 
round  themselves  in  the  same  space  of 
ground.  Men  who  had  noticed  how  very 
little  David's  heart  had  been  in  his  work 
were  amazed  to  see  the  reckless  courage  he 
displayed.  Round  and  round  the  mill  he 
flew,  keeping  the  outside  stock  from  flying 
off  at  a  tangent,  and  soothing  and  quieting 
the  beasts  nearest  to  him  with  his  voice. 
The  "run"  was  over  as  suddenly  as  it  com- 
menced, and  the  men,  breathless  and  ex- 
hausted, stood  around  the  circle  of  panting 
cattle. 

"Whar's  the  Captain?"  said  one;  "he 
gin 'rally  soop'rintends  a  job  like  this  him- 
self." 

"And  likes  to  do  it.  Who's  seen  the 
Captain  ?  Hev  you,  Lorimer  ? ' ' 

"He  was  in  camp  when  I  started.  My 
time  was  up  just  as  the  'run'  commenced." 


128  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

No  more  was  said;  indeed,  there  was 
little  opportunity  for  conversation.  The 
cattle  were  to  watch ;  it  was  still  dark ;  the 
men  were  weary  with  the  hard  riding  and 
the  unnatural  pitch  to  which  their  voices 
had  been  raised.  David  felt  that  he  must 
get  away  at  once;  any  moment  a  messenger 
from  the  camp  might  bring  the  news  of 
Whaley's  murder;  and  he  knew  well  that 
suspicion  would  at  once  rest  upon  him. 

He  offered  to  return  to  camp  and  report 
"all  right,"  and  the  offer  was  accepted; 
but,  at  the  first  turn,  he  rode  away  into  the 
darkness  of  a  belt  of  timber.  The  cayotes 
howled  in  the  distance ;  there  was  a  rush 
of  unclean  night  birds  above  him,  and  the 
growling  of  panther  cats  in  the  underwood. 
But  in  his  soul  there  was  a  terror  and  a 
darkness  that  made  all  natural  terrors  of 
small  account.  His  own  hands  were  hate- 
ful to  him.  He  moaned  out  loudly  like  a 
man  in  an  agony.  He  measured  in  every 
moment's  space  the  height  from  which  he 
had  fallen ;  the  blessings  from  which  he 
must  be  an  outcast,  if  by  any  means  he 
might  escape  the  shameful  punishment  of 
his  deed.  He  remembered  at  that  hour  his 
father's  love,  the  love  that  had  so  finely 
asserted  itself  when  the  occasion  for  it 
came.  Lulu's  tenderness  and  beauty,  the 
hope  of  home  and  children,  the  respect  of 
his  fellow- men,  all  sacrificed  for  a  moment's 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  129 

passionate  revenge.  He  stood  face  to  face 
with  himself,  and,  dropping  the  reins, 
cowered  down  full  of  terror  and  grief  at  the 
future  which  he  had  evoked.  Within  hope- 
less sight  of  Hope  and  Love  and  Home,  he 
was  silent  for  hours  gazing  despairingly 
after  the  life  which  had  sailed  by  him,  and 
not  daring— 

' ' to  search  through  what  sad  maze, 

Thenceforth  his  incommunicable  ways 
Follow  the  feet  of  death." 


CHAPTER  II. 

" and  sin,  when  it  is  finished,  bringeth  forth 

death. ' '     James  i.  15. 

Blessed  are  they  who  have  seen  Nature 
in  those  rare,  ineffable  moments  when  she 
appears  to  be  asleep — when  the  stars,  large 
and  white,  bend  stilly  over  the  dreaming 
earth,  and  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirs  leaf  or 
flower.  On  such  a  night  James  Lorimer 
sat  upon  his  south  verandah  smoking;  and 
his  niece  L,ulu,  white  and  motionless  as  the 
magnolia  flowers  above  her,  mused  the  hour 
away  beside  him.  There  were  little  ebony 
squads  of  negroes  huddled  together  around 
the  doors  of  their  quarters,  but  they  also 
were  singularly  quiet.  An  angel  of  silence 
had  passed  bjr  no  one  was  inclined  to 


130  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

disturb  the  tranquil  calm  of  the  dreaming 
earth. 

There  is  nothing  good  in  this  life  which 
Time  does  not  improve.  In  ten  days  the 
better  feelings  which  had  led  James  Lori- 
mer  to  seek  his  son  in  the  path  of  moral 
and  physical  danger  had  grown  as  Divine 
seed  does  grow.  This  very  night,  in  the 
scented  breathless  quiet,  he  was  longing 
for  David's  return,  and  forming  plans 
through  which  the  future  might  atone  for 
the  past.  Gradually  the  weary  negroes 
went  into  the  cabins,  rolled  themselves  in 
their  blankets  and  fell  into  that  sound, 
dreamless  sleep  which  is  the  compensation 
of  hard  labor.  Only  Lulu  watched  and 
thought  with  him. 

Suddenly  she  stood  up  and  listened. 
There  was  a  footstep  in  the  avenue,  and 
she  knew  it.  But  why  did  it  linger,  and 
what  dreary  echo  of  sorrow  was  there  in  it  ? 

''That  is  David's  step,  uncle;  but  what 
is  the  matter?  Is  he  sick?' ' 

Then  they  both  saw  the  young  man  com- 
ing slowly  through  the  gloom,  and  the 
shadow  of  some  calamity  came  steadily  on 
before  him.  Lulu  went  to  the  top  of  the 
long  flight  of  white  steps,  and  put  out  her 
hands  to  greet  him.  He  motioned  her 
away  with  a  woeful  and  positive  gesture, 
and  stood  with  hopeless  yet  half  defiant 
attitude  before  his  father. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  131 

In  a  moment  all  the  new  tenderness  was 
gone. 

In  a  voice  stern  and  scornful  he  asked, 
4 'Well,  sir,  what  is  the  matter?  What 
hae  ye  been  doing  now?" 

' 'I  have  shot  Whaley!" 

The  words  were  rather  breathed  than 
spoken,  but  they  were  distinctly  audible. 
The  father  rose  and  faced  his  wretched  son. 

Lulu  drew  close  to  him,  and  asked,  in  a 
shocked  whisper,  "Dead?" 

"Dead!" 

"But  you  had  a  good  reason,  David;  I 
know  you  had.  He  would  have  shot  you  ? 
— it  was  in  self-defence  ? — it  was  an  acci- 
dent? Speak,  dear!" 

"He  called  me  a  coward,  and — " 

' '  You  shot  him !  Then  you  are  a  coward, 
sir!"  said  Lorimer,  sternly;  "and  having 
made  yourself  fit  for  the  gallows,  you  are  a 
double  coward  to  come  here  and  force  upon 
me  the  duty  of  arresting  you.  Put  down 
your  rifle,  sir!" 

Lulu  uttered  a  long  low  wail.  "Oh, 
David,  my  love!  why  did  you  come  here? 
Did  you  hope  for  pity  or  help  in  his  heart  ? 
And  what  can  I  do  Davie,  but  suffer  with 
you?"  But  she  drew  his  face  down  and 
kissed  it  with  a  solemn  tenderness  that 
taught  the  wretched  man,  in  one  moment, 
all  the  blessedness  of  a  woman's  devotion, 
and  all  the  misery  that  the  indulgence 


132  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

of  his  ungovernable  temper  had  caused 
him. 

"We  will  hae  no  more  heroics,  Lulu. 
As  a  magistrate  and  a  citizen  it  is  my  duty 
to  arrest  a  murderer  on  his  ain  confession. ' ' 

"Your  duty!"  she  answered,  in  a  passion 
of  scorn.  "Had  you  done  your  duty  to 
David  in  the  past  years,  this  duty  would 
not  have  been  to  do.  Your  duty  or  any- 
thing belonging  to  yourself,  has  always 
been  your  sole  care.  Wrong  Davie,  wrong 
me,  slay  love  outright,  but  do  your  duty, 
and  stand  well  with  the  world  and  yourself ! 
Uncle,  you  are  a  dreadful  Christian!" 

"How  dare  you  judge  me,  Lulu?  Go  to 
your  own  room  at  once ! ' ' 

"David,  dearest,  farewell!  Fly! — you 
will  get  no  pity  here.  Fly !" 

"Sit  down,  sir,  and  do  not  attempt  to 
move ! ' ' 

"I  am  hungry,  thirsty,  weary  and 
wretched,  and  at  your  mercy,  father.  Do 
as  you  will  with  me. ' '  And  he  laid  his 
rifle  upon  the  table. 

Lorimer  looked  at  the  hopeless  figure 
that  almost  fell  into  the  chair  beside  him, 
and  his  first  feeling  was  one  of  mingled 
scorn  and  pity. 

' '  How  did  it  happen  ?  Tell  me  the  truth. 
I  want  neither  excuses  nor  deceptions." 

"I  have  no  desire  to  make  them.  There 
was  a  'run,'  just  as  my  time  was  out. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  133 

Whaley,  in  an  insolent  manner,  ordered  me 
to  help  turn  the  leaders.  I  did  not  move. 
He  called  me  a  coward,  and  taunted  me 
with  my  Spanish  blood — it  was  my  dear 
mother's." 

"That  is  it,"  answered  Lorimer,  with 
an  anger  all  the  more  terrible  for  its  re- 
straint; "it  is  the  Spanish  blood  wi'  its 
gasconade  and  foolish  pride." 

' '  Father !  You  have  a  right  to  give  me 
up  to  the  hangman ;  but  you  have  no  right 
to  insult  me. ' ' 

The  next  moment  he  fell  senseless  at  his 
father's  feet.  It  was  the  collapse  of  con- 
sciousness under  excessive  physical  exhaus- 
tion and  mental  anguish;  but  Lorimer, 
who  had  never  seen  a  man  in  such  ex- 
tremity, believed  it  to  be  death.  A  tumult 
of  emotions  rushed  over  him,  but  assistance 
was  evidently  the  first  duty,  and  he 
hastened  for  it.  First  he  sent  the  house- 
keeper Cassie  to  her  young  master,  then  he 
went  to  the  quarters  to  arouse  Plato. 

When  he  returned,  Lulu  and  Cassie  were 
kneeling  beside  the  unconscious  youth. 
"You  have  murdered  him!"  said  Lulu,  bit- 
terly ;  and  for  a  moment  he  felt  something 
of  the  remorseful  agony  which  had  driven 
the  criminal  at  his  feet  into  a  short  oblivion. 
But  very  soon  there  was  a  slight  reaction, 
and  the  father  was  the  first  to  see  it.  "He 
has  only  fainted;  bring  some  wine  here!" 


134  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Then  he  remembered  the  weakness  of  the 
voice  which  had  said,  "I  am  hungry,  and 
thirsty,  and  weary  and  wretched. ' ' 

When  David  opened  his  eyes  again  his 
first  glance  was  at  his  father.  There  was 
something  in  that  look  that  smote  the  angry 
man  to  his  heart  of  hearts.  He  turned 
away,  motioning  Plato  to  follow  him.  But 
even  when  he  had  reached  his  own  room 
and  shut  his  door,  he  could  not  free  himself 
from  the  influence  evoked  by  that  look  of 
sorrowful  reproach. 

Plato  stood  just  within  the  door,  nerv- 
ously dangling  his  straw  hat.  He  was  evi- 
dently balancing  some  question  in  his  own 
mind,  and  the  uncertainty  gave  a  queer 
restlessness  to  every  part  of  his  body. 

' '  Plato,  you  are  to  watch  the  young  man 
down-stairs;  he  is  not  to  be  allowed  to  leave 
the  house. ' ' 

"Yes,  sar." 

"He  has  committed  a  great  crime,  and 
lie  must  abide  the  consequences. ' ' 

No  answer. 

"You  understand  that,  Plato?" 

' '  Dunno,  sar.  I  mighty  sinful  ole  man 
myself.  Dunno  bout  de  consequences. ' ' 

' '  Go,  and  do  as  I  bid  you ! ' ' 

When  he  was  alone  he  rose  slowly  and 
locked  his  door.  He  wanted  to  do  right, 
but  he  was  like  a  man  in  the  fury  and 
darkness  of  a  great  tempest :  he  could  not 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  135 

see  any  road  at  all.  There  was  a  Bible  on 
his  dressing-table,  and  he  opened  it;  but 
the  verses  mingled  together,  and  the  sense 
of  everything  seemed  to  escape  him.  The 
hand  of  the  Great  Father  was  stretched  out 
to  him  in  the  dark,  but  he  could  not  find  it. 
He  knew  that  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  lay 
a  wish  that  David  would  escape  from  jus- 
tice. He  knew  that  a  selfish  shame  about 
his  own  fair  character  mingled  with  his 
father's  love;  his  motives  and  feelings  were 
so  mixed  that  he  did  not  dare  to  bring 
them,  in  their  pure  truthfulness,  to  the  feet 
of  God ;  for  as  yet  he  did  not  understand 
that  "like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children, 
so  the  Lord  pitieth  them  that  fear  Him;" 
he  thought  of  the  Divine  Being  as  one  so 
jealous  for  His  own  rights  and  honor  that 
He  would  have  the  human  heart  a  void, 
so  that  he  might  reign  there  supremely. 
So  all  that  terrible  night  he  stood  smitten 
and  astonished  on  a  threshold  he  could  not 
pass. 

In  another  room  the  question  was  being: 
in  a  measure  solved  for  him.  Cassie 
brought  in  meat  and  bread  and  wine,  and 
David  ate,  and  felt  refreshed.  Then  the 
love  of  life  returned,  and  the  terror  of  a 
shameful  death ;  and  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  rifle  and  looked  round  to  see  what 
chance  of  escape  his  father  had  left  him. 
Plato  stood  at  the  door,  Lulu  sat  by  his 


136  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

side,  holding  his  hand.  On  her  face  there 
was  an  expression  of  suffering,  at  once  de- 
fiant and  despairing — a  barren  suffering, 
without  hope.  They  had  come  to  that  turn 
on  their  unhappy  road  when  they  had  to 
bid  each  other  "Farewell!"  It  was  done 
very  sadly,  and  with  few  words. 

"You  must  go  now,  beloved. ' ' 

He  held  her  close  to  his  heart  and  kissed 
her  solemnly  and  silently.  The  next  mo- 
ment she  turned  on  him  from  the  open  door 
a  white,  anguished  face.  Then  he  was 
alone  with  Plato. 

'  *  Plato,  I  must  go  now.  Will  you  saddle 
the  brown  mare  for  me?" 

''She  am  waiting,  Massa  David.  I  tole 
Cassie  to  get  her  ready,  and  some  bread 
and  meat,  and  dis,  Massa  Davie,  if  you'll 
'blige  ole  Plato."  Then  he  laid  down  a 
rude  bag  of  buckskin,  holding  the  savings 
of  his  lifetime. 

' '  How  much  is  there,  Plato?' ' 

"Four  hundred  dollars,  sar.  Sorry  it 
am  so  little. ' ' 

"It  was  for  your  freedom,  Plato." 

"I  done  gib  dat  up,  Massa  Davie.  I'se 
too  ole  now  to  git  de  rest.  Ef  you  git  free, 
dat  is  all  I  want. ' ' 

They  went  quietly  out  together.  It  was 
not  long  after  midnight.  The  brown  mare 
stood  ready  saddled  in  the  shadow,  and 
Cassie  stood  beside  her  with  a  small  bag 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  137 

holding  a  change  of  linen  and  some  cooked 
food.  The  young  man  mounted  quickly, 
grasped  the  kind  hands  held  out  to  him, 
and  then  rode  away  into  the  darkness.  He 
went  softly  at  first,  but  when  he  reached 
the  end  of  the  avenue  at  a  speed  which  in- 
dicated his  terror  and  his  mental  suffering. 

Cassie  and  Plato  watched  him  until  he 
became  an  indistinguishable  black  spot 
upon  the  prairie;  then  they  turned  wearily 
towards  the  cabins.  They  had  seen  and 
shared  the  long  sorrow  and  discontent  of 
the  household;  they  hardly  expected  any- 
thing but  trouble  in  some  form  or  other. 
Both  were  also  thinking  of  the  punishment 
they  were  likely  to  receive ;  for  James  Lori- 
mer  never  failed  to  make  an  example  of 
evil-doers ;  he  would  hardly  be  disposed  to 
pass  over  their  disobedience. 

Early  in  the  morning  Plato  was  called  by 
his  master.  There  was  little  trace  of  the 
night  of  mental  agony  the  latter  had 
passed.  He  was  one  of  those  complete 
characters  who  join  to  perfect  physical 
health  a  mind  whose  fibres  do  not  easily 
show  the  severest  strain. 

"Tell  Master  David  to  come  here." 

"Massa  David,  sar!  Massa  David  done 
gone,sar!"  The  old  man's  lips  were  trem- 
bling, but  otherwise  his  nervous  restless- 
ness was  over.  He  looked  his  master 
calmly  in  the  face. 


138  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  to  stop  him?' ' 

"Ef  de  Lord  in  heaven  want  him  stopped, 
Massa  James,  He'll  send  the  messenger — 
Plato  could  not  do  it!" 

"How  did  he  go?" 

"On  de  little  brown  mare — his  own  horse 
done  broke  all  up. ' ' 

"How  much  money  did  you  give  him?" 

"Money,  sar?" 

' '  How  much  ?     Tell  the  truth. ' ' 

' '  Four  hundred  dollars. ' ' 

"That  will  do.  Tell  Cassie  I  want  my 
breakfast. ' ' 

At  breakfast  he  glanced  at  Lulu's  empty 
chair,  but  said  nothing.  In  the  house  all 
was  as  if  no  great  sin  and  sorrow  had 
darkened  its  threshold  and  left  a  stain  upon 
its  hearthstone.  The  churning  and  clean- 
ing was  going  on  as  usual.  Only  Cassie 
was  quieter,  and  Lulu  lay,  white  and  mo- 
tionless, in  the  little  vine-shaded  room  that 
looked  too  cool  and  pretty  for  grief  to  enter. 
The  unhappy  father  sat  still  all  day,  pon- 
dering many  things  that  he  had  not  before 
thought  of.  Bvery  footfall  made  his  heart 
turn  sick,  but  the  night  came,  and  there 
was  no  further  bad  news. 

On  the  second  day  he  went  into  Lulu's 
room,  hoping  to  say  a  word  of  comfort  to 
her.  She  listened  apathetically,  and 
turned  her  face  to  the  wall  with  a  great 
sob.  He  began  to  feel  some  irritation  in 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  139 

the  atmosphere  of  misery  which  surrounded 
him.  It  was  very  hard  to  be  made  so 
wretched  for  another's  sin.  The  thought 
in  an  instant  became  a  reproach.  Was  he 
altogether  innocent?  The  second  and  third 
days  passed ;  he  began  to  be  sure  then  that 
David  must  have  reached  a  point  beyond 
the  probability  of  pursuit. 

On  the  fourth  day  he  went  to  the  cotton 
field.  He  visited  the  overseer's  house,  he 
spent  the  day  in  going  over  accounts  and 
making  estimates.  He  tried  to  forget  that 
something  had  happened  which  made  life 
appear  a  different  thing.  In  the  grey, 
chill,  misty  evening  he  returned  home. 
The  negroes  were  filing  down  the  long  lane 
before  him,  each  bearing  their  last  basket 
of  cotton — all  of  them  silent,  depressed 
with  their  weariness,  and  intensely  sen- 
sitive to  the  melancholy  influence  of  the 
autumn  twilight.  • 

Ivorimer  did  not  care  to  pass  them.  He 
saw  them,  one  by  one,  leave  their  cotton  at 
the  ginhouse,  and  trail  despondingly  off  to 
their  cabins.  Then  he  rode  slowly  up  to 
his  own  door.  A  man  sat  on  the  verandah 
smoking.  At  the  sight  of  him  his  heart 
fell  fathoms  deep. 

"Good  evening."  He  tried  to  give  his 
voice  a  cheerful  welcoming  sound,  but  he 
could  not  do  it;  and  the  visitor's  attitude 
was  not  encouraging. 


140  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"Good  evening,  Lorimer.  I'm  right 
sorry  to  tell  you  that  you  will  be  wanted 
on  some  unpleasant  business  very  early  to- 
morrow morning. ' ' 

He  tried  to  answer,  but  utterly  failed; 
his  tongue  was  as  dumb  as  his  soul  was 
heavy.  He  only  drew  a  chair  forward  and 
sat  down. 

"Fact  is  your  son  is  in  a  tighter  place 
than  any  man  would  care  for.  I  brought 
him  up  to  Sheriff  Gillelands'  this  after- 
noon. Perhaps  he  can  make  it  out  a  case 
of  'justifiable  homicide' — hope  he  can. 
He's  about  as  likely  a  young  man  as  I  ever 
saw. ' ' 

Still  no  answer. 

"Well,  Lorimer,  I  think  you're  right. 
Talking  won't  help  things,  and  may  make 
them  a  sight  worse.  You'll  be  over  to 
Judge  Lepperts'  in  the  morning? — say 
about  ten  o'clock." 

"Yes.     Will  you  have  some  supper?" 

"No;  this  is  not  hungry  work.  My  pipe 
is  more  satisfactory  under  the  circum- 
stances. I'll  have  to  saddle  up,  too. 
There's  others  to  see  yet.  Is  there  any 
one  particular  you'd  like  on  the  jury?" 

' 'No.     You  must  do  your  duty,  Sheriff." 

He  heard  him  gallop  away,  and  stood 
still,  clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands  in 
a  maze  of  anguish.  David  at  Sheriff  Gille- 
lands' !  David  to  be  tried  for  murder  in 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  141 

the  morning!  What  could  he  do?  If 
David  had  not  confessed  to  the  shooting  of 
Whaley,  would  he  be  compelled  to  give  his 
evidence?  Surely,  conscience  would  not 
require  so  hard  a  duty  of  him. 

At  length  he  determined  to  go  and  see 
David  before  he  decided  upon  the  course 
he  ought  to  take.  The  sheriff's  was  only 
about  three  miles  distant.  He  rode  over 
there  at  once.  His  son,  with  travel-stained 
clothes  and  blood-shot  hopeless  eyes,  looked 
up  to  see  him  enter.  His  heart  was  full  of  a 
great  love,  but  it  was  wronged,  even  at 
that  hour,  by  an  irritation  that  would  first 
and  foremost  assert  itself.  Instead  of  say- 
ing, "My  dear,  dear  lad!"  the  lament 
which  was  in  his  heart,  he  said,  "So  this 
is  the  end  of  it,  David?" 

"Yes.     It  is  the  end." 

"You  ought  not  to  have  run  away." 

"No.  I  ought  to  have  let  you  surrender 
me  to  justice;  that  would  have  put  you  all 
right. ' ' 

' '  I  wasna  thinking  o'  that.  A  man  flying 
from  justice  is  condemned  by  the  act." 

' '  It  would  have  made  no  matter.  There 
is  only  one  verdict  and  one  end  possible. ' ' 

"Have  you  then  confessed  the  murder?" 

He  awaited  the  answer  in  an  agony.  It 
came  with  a  terrible  distinctness.  ' '  Whaley 
lived  thirty  hours.  He  told.  His  brother- 
in-law  has  gone  on  with  the  cattle.  Four 


142  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

of  the  drivers  are  come  back  as  witnesses. 
They  are  in  the  house. ' ' 

"But  you  have  not  yourself  confessed?" 

"Yes.  I  told  Sheriff  Gillelands  I  shot 
the  man.  If  I  had  not  done  so  you  would ; 
I  knew  that.  I  have  at  least  spared  you 
the  pain  and  shame  of  denouncing  your 
own  son!" 

"Oh,  David,  David!  I  would  not.  My 
dear  lad,  I  would  not !  I  would  hae  gane 
to  the  end  o'  the  world  first.  Why  didna 
you  trust  me?" 

"How  could  I,  father?" 

He  let  the  words  drop  wearily,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  After  a 
pause,  he  said,  "Poor  Lulu!  Don't  tell 
her  if  you  can  help  it,  until — all  is  over. 
How  glad  I  am  this  day  that  my  mother  is 
dead!" 

The  wretched  father  could  endure  the 
scene  no  longer.  He  went  into  the  outer 
room  to  find  out  what  hope  of  escape  re- 
mained for  his  son.  The  sheriff  was  full 
of  pity,  and  entered  readily  into  a  discus- 
sion of  David's  chances.  But  he  was 
obliged  to  point  out  that  they  were  ex- 
tremely small.  The  jury  and  the  judge 
were  all  alike  cattle  men ;  their  sympathies 
were  positively  against  everything  likely 
to  weaken  the  discipline  necessary  in  carry- 
ing large  herds  of  cattle  safely  across  the 
continent.  In  the  moment  of  extremest 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  143 

danger,  David  had  not  only  refused  assist- 
ance, but  had  shot  his  employer. 

"He  called  him  a  coward,  and  you'll 
admit  that's  a  vera  aggravating  name." 

The  sheriff  readily  admitted  that  under 
any  ordinary  circumstances  in  Texas  that 
epithet  would  justify  a  murder;  "but,"  he 
added,  "most  any  Texan  would  say  he  was 
a  coward  to  stand  still  and  see  eight  thou- 
sand head  of  cattle  on  the  stampede.  You'll 
excuse  me,  Lorimer,  I'd  say  so  myself." 

He  went  home  again  and  shut  himself  in 
his  room  to  think.  But  after  many  hours, 
he  was  just  as  far  as  ever  from  any  coherent 
decision.  Justice!  Justice!  Justice!  The 
whole  current  of  his  spiritual  and  mental 
constitution  ran  that  road.  Blood  for  blood ; 
a  life  for  a  life ;  it  was  meet  and  right,  and 
he  acknowledged  it  with  bleeding  heart 
and  streaming  eyes.  But,  clear  and  dis- 
tinct above  the  tumult  of  this  current,  he 
heard  something  which  made  him  cry  out 
with  an  equally  unhappy  father  of  old, 
' '  Oh,  Absalom !  My  son,  my  son  Ab- 
salom!" 

Then  came  the  accuser  and  boldly  told 
him  that  he  had  neglected  his  duty,  and 
driven  his  son  into  the  way  of  sin  and 
death ;  and  that  the  seeds  sown  in  domestic 
bickering  and  unkindness  had  only  brought 
forth  their  natural  fruit.  The  scales  fell 
from  his  eyes;  all  the  past  became  clear  to 


144  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

him.  His  own  righteousness  was  dreadful 
in  his  sight.  He  cried  out  with  his  whole 
soul,  ' '  God  be  merciful !  God  be  merciful ! ' ' 

The  darkest  despairs  are  the  most  silent. 
All  the  night  long  he  was  only  able  to  utter 
that  one  heartbroken  cry  for  pity  and  help. 
At  the  earliest  daylight  he  was  with  his 
son.  He  was  amazed  to  find  him  calm, 
almost  cheerful.  "The  worst  is  over 
father,"  he  said.  "I  have  done  a  great 
wrong;  I  acknowledge  the  justice  of  the 
punishment,  and  am  willing  to  suffer  it." 

"But  after  death!  Oh,  David,  David— 
afterward ! ' ' 

"I  shall  dare  to  hope — for  Christ  also 
has  died,  the  just  for  the  unjust." 

Then  the  father,  with  a  solemn  earnest- 
ness, spoke  to  his  son  of  that  eternity  whose 
shores  his  feet  were  touching.  At  this 
hour  he  would  shirk  no  truth;  he  would 
encourage  no  false  hope.  And  David 
listened;  for  this  side  of  his  father's  char- 
acter he  had  always  had  great  respect,  and 
in  those  first  hours  of  remorse  following  the 
murder,  not  the  least  part  of  his  suffering 
had  been  the  fearful  looking  forward  to  the 
Divine  vengeance  which  he  could  never  fly 
from.  But  there  had  been  One  with  him 
that  night,  One  who  is  not  very  far  from 
us  at  any  time ;  and  though  David  had  but 
tremblingly  understood  His  voice,  and  al- 
most feared  to  accept  its  comfort,  he  was 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  145 

in  those  desperate  circumstances  when  men 
cannot  reason  and  philosophize,  when  noth- 
ing remains  for  them  but  to  believe. 

"Dinna  get  by  the  truth,  my  dear  lad; 
you  hae  committed  a  great  sin,  there  is  nae 
doubt  o'  that. ' ' 

"But  God's  mercy,  I  trust,  is  greater." 

' '  And  you  hae  nothing  to  bring  him 
from  a'  the  years  o'  your  life !  Oh,  David, 
David!" 

"I  know,"  he  answered  sadly.  "But 
neither  had  the  dying  thief.  He  only  be- 
lieved. Father,  this  is  the  sole  hope  and 
comfort  left  me  now.  Don't  take  it  from 
me." 

Lorimer  turned  away  weeping;  yes,  and 
praying,  too,  as  men  must  pray  when  they 
stand  powerless  in  the  stress  of  terrible  sor- 
rows. At  noon  the  twelve  men  summoned 
dropped  in  one  by  one,  and  the  informal 
court  was  opened.  David  Lorimer  admitted 
the  murder,  and  explained  the  long  irrita- 
tion and  the  final  taunt  which  had  produced 
it.  The  testimony  of  the  returned  drovers 
supplemented  the  tragedy.  If  there  was 
any  excuse  to  be  made,  it  lay  in  the  dis- 
graceful epithet  applied  to  David  and  the 
scornful  mention  of  his  mother's  race. 

There  was,  however,  an  unfavorable  feel- 
ing from  the  first.  The  elder  Lorimer, 
with  his  stern  principles  and  severe  man- 
ners, was  not  a  popular  man.  David's 


146  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

proud,  passionate  temper  had  made  him 
some  active  enemies ;  and  there  was  not  a 
man  on  the  jury  who  did  not  feel  as  the 
sheriff  had  honestly  expressed  himself  re- 
garding David's  conduct  at  the  moment  of 
the  stampede.  It  touched  all  their  pre- 
judices and  their  interests  very  nearly;  not 
one  of  them  was  inclined  to  blame  Whaley 
for  calling  a  man  a  coward  who  would  not 
answer  the  demand  for  help  at  such  an  im- 
perative moment. 

As  to  the  Spanish  element,  it  had  always 
been  an  offence  to  Texans.  There  were 
men  on  the  jury  whose  fathers  had  died 
fighting  it;  beside,  there  was  that  unac- 
knowledged but  positive  contempt  which 
ever  attaches  itself  to  a  race  that  has  been 
subjugated.  Long  before  the  form  of  a 
trial  was  over,  David  had  felt  the  hopeless- 
ness of  hope,  and  had  accepted  his  fate. 
Not  so  his  father.  He  pleaded  with  all  his 
soul  for  his  son's  life.  But  he  touched  no 
heart  there.  The  jury  had  decided  on 
the  death-sentence  before  they  left  their 
seats. 

And  in  that  locality,  and  at  that  time, 
there  was  no  delay  in  carrying  it  out.  It 
would  be  inconvenient  to  bring  together 
again  a  sufficient  number  of  witnesses,  and 
equally  inconvenient  to  guard  a  prisoner 
for  any  length  of  time.  David  was  to  die 
at  sunset. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  147 

Three  hours  yet  remained  to  the  miser- 
able father.  He  threw  aside  all  pride  and 
all  restraint.  Remorse  and  tenderness 
wrung  his  heart.  But  these  last  hours  had 
a  comfort  no  others  in  their  life  ever  had. 
What  confessions  of  mutual  faults  were 
made !  What  kisses  and  forgivenesses  were 
exchanged!  At  last  the  two  poor  souls 
who  had  dwelt  in  the  chill  of  mistakes  and 
ignorance  knew  that  they  loved  each  other. 
Sometimes  the  Lord  grants  such  sudden 
unfoldings  to  souls  long  closed.  They  are 
of  those  royal  compassions  which  astonish 
even  the  angels. 

When  his  time  was  nearly  over,  David 
pushed  a  piece  of  paper  toward  his  father. 
"It  is  my  last  request, ' '  he  said,  looking 
into  his  face  with  eyes  whose  entreaty  was 
pathetic.  "You  must  grant  it,  father,  hard 
as  it  is. ' ' 

Lorimer's  hand  trembled  as  he  took  the 
paper,  but  his  face  turned  pale  as  ashes 
when  he  read  the  contents. 

"I  canna,  I  canna  do  it,"  he  whispered. 

"Yes,  you  will,  father.  It  is  the  last 
favor  I  shall  ask  of  you. ' ' 

The  request  was  indeed  a  bitter  one;  so 
bitter  that  David  had  not  dared  to  voice  it. 
It  was  this — 

' '  Father,  be  my  executioner.  Do  not  let  me 
be  hung.  The  rope  is  all  I  dread  in  death ; 
ere  it  touch  me,  let  your  rifle  end  my  life. '  * 


148  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

For  a  few  moments  Lorimer  sat  like  a 
man  turned  to  stone.  Then  he  rose  and 
went  to  the  jury.  They  were  sitting  to- 
gether under  some  mulberry  trees,  smok- 
ing. Naturally  silent,  they  had  scarcely 
spoken  since  their  verdict.  Grave,  fierce 
men,  they  were  far  from  being  cruel;  they 
had  no  pleasure  in  the  act  which  they  be- 
lieved to  be  their  duty. 

Lorimer  went  from  one  to  the  other  and 
made  known  his  son's  request.  He  pleaded, 
"That  as  David  had  shot  Whaley,  justice 
would  be  fully  satisfied  in  meting  out  the 
same  death  to  the  murderer  as  the  victim. ' ' 

But  one  man,  a  ranchero  of  great  influ- 
ence and  wealth,  answered  that  he  must 
oppose  such  a  request.  It  was  the  rope,  he 
thought,  made  the  punishment.  He  hoped 
no  Texan  feared  a  bullet.  A  clean,  honor- 
able death  like  that  was  for  a  man  who  had 
never  wronged  his  manhood.  Every  ras- 
cally horse  thief  or  Mexican  assassin  would 
demand  a  shot  if  they  were  given  a  pre- 
cedent. And  arguments  that  would  have 
been  essentially  false  in  some  localities  had 
a  compelling  weight  in  that  one.  The  men 
gravely  nodded  their  heads  in  assent,  and 
Lorimer  knew  that  any  further  pleading 
was  in  vain.  Yet  when  he  returned  to  his 
son,  he  clasped  his  hand  and  looked  into 
his  eyes,  and  David  understood  that  his 
request  would  be  granted. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  149 

Just  as  the  sun  dropped  the  sheriff  en- 
tered the  room.  He  took  the  prisoner's 
arm  and  walked  quietly  out  with  him. 
There  was  a  coil  of  rope  on  his  other  arm, 
and  David  cast  his  eyes  on  it  with  horror 
and  abhorrence,  and  then  looked  at  his 
father;  and  the  look  was  returned  with  one 
of  singular  steadiness.  When  they  reached 
the  little  grove  of  mulberries,  the  men,  one 
by  one,  laid  down  their  pipes  and  slowly 
rose.  There  was  a  large  live  oak  at  the 
end  of  the  enclosure,  and  to  it  the  party 
walked. 

Here  David  was  asked  "if  he  was 
guilty?"  and  he  acknowledged  the  sin: 
and  when  further  asked  "if  he  thought  he 
had  been  fairly  dealt  with,  and  deserved 
death?"  he  answered,  "that  he  was  quite  • 
satisfied,  and  was  willing  to  pay  the  penalty 
of  his  crime. ' ' 

Oh,  how  handsome  he  looked  at  this  mo- 
ment to  his  heart-broken  father !  His  bare 
head  was  just  touched  by  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  behind  him;  his  fine  face,  calm  • 
and  composed,  wore  even  a  faint  air  of  ex- 
ultation. At  this  hour  the  travel-stained 
garments  clothed  him  with  a  touching  and 
not  ignoble  pathos.  Involuntarily  they  told 
of  the  weary  days  and  nights  of  despairing 
flight,  which  after  all  had  been  useless. 

I^orimer  asked  if  he  might  pray,  and 
there  was  a  siu  ultaneous  '  though  silent 


150  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

motion  of  assent.  Every  man  bared  his 
head,  while  the  wretched  father  repeated 
the  few  verses  of  entreaty  and  hope  which 
at  that  awful  hour  were  his  own  strength 
and  comfort.  This  service  occupied  but  a 
few  minutes;  just  as  it  ended  out  of  the 
dead  stillness  rose  suddenly  a  clear,  joyful 
thrilling  burst  of  song  from  a  mocking  bird 
in  the  branches  above.  David  looked  up 
with  a  wonderful  light  on  his  face;  perhaps 
it  meant  more  to  him  than  anyone  else  un- 
derstood. 

The  next  moment  the  sheriff  was  turning 
back  the  flannel  collar  which  covered  the 
strong,  pillar-like  throat.  In  that  moment 
David  sought  his  father's  eyes  once  more, 
smiled  faintly,  and  called  " Father!  Now  /" 
As  the  words  reached  the  father's  ears,  the 
bullet  reached  the  son's  heart.  He  fell 
without  a  moan  ere  the  rope  had  touched 
him.  It  was  the  father's  groan  which 
struck  every  heart  like  a  blow;  and  there 
was  a  grandeur  of  suffering  about  him 
which  no  one  thought  of  resisting. 

He  walked  to  his  child's  side,  and  kneel- 
ing down  closed  the  eyes,  and  wept  and 
prayed  over  him  as  a  mother  over  her  first- 
born. They  were  all  fathers  around  him; 
not  one  of  them  but  suffered  with  him. 
Silently  they  untied  their  horses  and  rode 
away ;  no  one  had  the  heart  to  say  a  word 
of  dissent.  If  they  had,  Lorimer  had 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  151 

reached  a  point  far  beyond  care  of  man's 
approval  or  disapproval  in  the  matter;  for 
a  great  sorrow  is  indifferent  to  all  outside 
itself. 

When  he  lifted  his  head  he  was  alone. 
The  sheriff  was  waiting  at  the  house  door, 
Plato  stood  at  a  little  distance,  weeping. 
He  motioned  to  him  to  approach,  and  in  a 
few  words  understood  that  he  had  with  him 
a  companion  and  a  rude  bier.  They  laid 
the  body  upon  it,  and  the  sheriff  having 
satisfied  himself  that  the  last  penalty  had 
been  fully  paid,  L,orimer  was  permitted  to 
claim  his  dead.  He  took  him  up  to  his 
own  room  and  laid  him  on  his  own  bed,  and 
passed  the  night  by  his  side.  The  dead 
opened  the  eyes  of  the  living,  and  in  that 
solemn  companionship  he  saw  all  that  he 
had  been  blind  to  for  so  many  years.  Then 
he  understood  what  it  must  be  to  sit  in  the 
silent  halls  of  eternal  despair,  and  count 
over  and  over  the  wasted  blessings  of  love 
and  endure  the  agony  of  unavailing  repent- 
ance. 

In  the  morning  he  knew  he  must  tell 
L,ulu  all;  and  this  duty  he  dreaded.  But 
in  some  way  the  girl  already  knew  the  full 
misery  of  the  tragedy.  Part  she  had 
divined,  and  part  she  had  gathered  from 
the  servants'  faces  and  words.  8he  was 
quite  aware  what  was  in  her  uncle's  lonely 
room.  Just  as  he  was  thinking  of  the  hard 


152  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

necessity  of  going  to  her,  she  came  to  the 
door.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  called 
her  "My  daughter, ' '  and  stooped  and  kissed 
her.  He  had  a  letter  for  her — David's 
dying  message  of  love.  He  put  it  in  her 
hand,  and  left  her  alone  with  the  dead. 

At  sunrise  a  funeral  took  place.  In  that 
climate  the  necessity  was  an  urgent  one. 
Plato  had  dug  the  grave  under  a  tree  in  the 
little  clearing  in  the  cypress  swamp.  It 
had  been  a  favorite  place  of  resort;  there 
Lulu  had  often  brought  her  work  or  book, 
and  passed  long  happy  hours  with  the  slain 
youth.  She  followed  his  corpse  to  the 
grave  in  a  tearless  apathy,  more  pitiful 
than  the  most  frantic  grief.  Lorimer  took 
her  on  his  arm,  the  servants  in  long  single 
file,  silent  and  terrified,  walked  behind 
them.  The  sun  was  shining,  but  the  chilly 
wind  blew  the  withered  leaves  across  the 
still  prostrate  figure,  as  it  lay  upon  the 
ground,  where  last  it  had  stood  in  all  the 
beauty  and  unreasoning  passion  of  youth. 

When  the  last  rites  were  over  the  ser- 
vants went  wailing  home  again,  their  dole- 
ful, monotonous  chant  seeming  to  fill  the 
whole  spaces  of  air  with  lamentation.  But 
neither  Lorimer  nor  Lulu  spoke  a  word. 
The  girl  was  white  and  cold  as  marble,  and 
absolutely  irresponsive  to  her  uncle's  un- 
usual tenderness.  Evidently  she  had  not 
forgiven  him.  And  as  the  winter  went 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  153 

wearily  on  she  gradually  drew  more  and 
more  within  her  own  consciousness.  Lori- 
mer  seldom  saw  her.  She  was  soon  very 
ill,  and  kept  her  room  entirely.  He  sent 
for  eminent  physicians,  he  surrounded  her 
with  marks  of  thoughtful  love  and  care ;  but 
quietly,  as  a  flower  fades,  she  died. 

One  night  she  sent  for  him.  " Uncle," 
she  said,  "I  am  going  away  very  soon, 
now.  If  I  have  been  hard  and  unjust  to 
you,  forgive  me.  And  I  want  your  promise 
about  my  sister's  children;  will  you  give 
me  it?'' 

He  winced  visibly,  and  remained  silent. 

" There  are  six  boys  and  two  girls — they 
are  poor,  ignorant  and  unhappy.  They  are 
under  very  bad  influences.  For  David's 
sake  and  my  sake  you  must  see  that  they 
are  brought  up  right.  There  need  be  no 
mistakes  this  time;  for  two  wrecked  lives 
you  may  save  eight.  You  will  do  it,  uncle  ? ' ' 

' '  I  will  do  my  best,  dear. ' ' 

"I  know  you  will.  Send  Plato  to  San 
Antonio  for  them  at  once.  You  will  need 
company  soon. ' ' 

"Do  you  think  you  are  dying,  dear?" 

"I  know  I  am  dying." 

"And  how  is  a'  wi'  you  anent  what  is 
beyond  death?" 

She  pointed  with  a  bright  smile  to  the 
New  Testament  by  her  side,  and  then 
closed  her  eyes  wearily.  She  appeared  so 


154  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

exhausted  that  he  could  press  the  question 
no  further.  And  the  next  morning  she  had 
"gone  away" — gone  so  silently  and  peace- 
fully that  Aunt  Cassie,  who  was  sitting  by 
her  side,  knew  not  when  she  departed.  He 
went  and  looked  at  her.  The  fair  young 
face  had  a  look  austere  and  sorrowful,  as  if 
life  had  been  too  sore  a  burden  for  her. 
His  anguish  was  great,  but  it  was  God's 
doing.  What  was  there  for  him  to  say  ? 

The  charge  that  she  had  left  him  he 
faithfully  kept — not  very  cheerfully  at  first, 
perhaps,  and  often  feeling  it  to  be  a  very 
heavy  care;  but  he  persevered,  and  the 
reward  came.  The  children  grew  and 
prospered;  they  loved  him,  and  he  learned 
to  love  them,  so  much,  finally,  that  he  gave 
them  his  own  name,  and  suffered  them  to 
call  him  father. 

As  the  country  settled,  and  little  towns 
grew  up  around  him,  the  tragedy  of  his 
earlier  life  was  forgotten  by  the  world,  but 
it  was  ever  present  to  his  own  heart ;  for 
though  love  and  sorrow  mellowed  and 
chastened  the  stern  creed  in  which  he  be- 
lieved with  all  his  soul,  he  had  many  an 
hour  of  spiritual  agony  concerning  the  be- 
loved ones  who  had  died  and  made  no  sign. 
Not  till  he  got  almost  within  the  heavenly 
horizon  did  he  understand  that  the  Divine 
love  and  mercy  is  without  limitations;  and 
that  He  who  could  say,  *%et  there  be 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          155 

light,"  could  also  say,  "Thy  sins  be  for- 
given thee;"  and  the  pardoned  child,  or 
ever  he  was  aware,  be  come  to  the  holy 
land:  for — 

4 '  Down  in  the  valley  of  death 

A  cross  is  standing  plain ; 
Where  strange  and  awful  the  shadows  sleep, 

And  the  ground  has  a  deep  red  stain. 
This  cross  uplifted  there 

Forbids,  with  voice  Divine, 
Our  anguished  hearts  to  break  for  the  dead 

Who  have  died  and  made  no  sign. 
As  they  turned  at  length  from  us, 

Dear  eyes  that  were  heavy  and  dim, 
May  have  met  his  look,  who  was  lifted  there, 

May  be  sleeping  safe  in  Him." 


156  Winter  Evening  Tales. 


THE   SEVEN   WISE   MEN   OF   PRES- 
TON. 

Let  me  introduce  to  our  readers  seven  of 
the  wisest  men  of  the  present  century — the 
seven  drafters  and  signers  of  the  first  tee- 
total pledge. 

The  movement  originated  in  the  mind  of 
Joseph  Livesey,  and  a  short  consideration 
of  the  circumstances  and  surroundings  of 
his  useful  career  will  give  us  the  best  in- 
sight into  the  necessities  and  influences 
which  gave  it  birth.  He  was  born  near 
Preston,  in  Lancashire,  in  the  year  1795; 
the  beginning  of  an  era  in  English  history 
which  scarcely  has  a  parallel  for  national 
suffering.  The  excitement  of  the  French 
Revolution  still  agitated  all  classes,  and 
commercial  distress  and  political  animosi- 
ties made  still  more  terrible  the  universal 
scarcity  of  food  and  the  prostration  of  the 
manufacturing  business. 

His  father  and  mother  died  early,  and  he 
was  left  to  the  charge  of  his  grandfather, 
who,  unfortunately,  abandoned  his  farm 
and  became  a  cotton  spinner.  Lancashire 
men  had  not  then  been  whetted  by  daily 
attrition  with  steam  to  their  present  keen 
and  shrewd  character,  and  the  elder  Livesey 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  157 

lost  all  he  possessed.  The  records  of  cotton 
printing  and  spinning  mention  with  honor 
the  Messrs.  L,ivesey,  of  Preston,  as  the  first 
who  put  into  practice  Bell's  invention  of 
cylindrical  printing  of  calicoes  in  1785;  but 
whether  the  firms  are  identical  or  not  I  have 
no  certain  knowledge.  It  shows,  however, 
that  they  were  a  race  inclined  to  improve- 
ments and  ready  to  test  an  advance  move- 
ment. 

That  Joseph  Livesey's  youth  was  a  hard 
and  bitter  one  there  is  no  doubt.  The 
price  of  flour  continued  for  years  fabulously 
high ;  so  much  so  that  wealthy  people  gen- 
erally pledged  themselves  to  reduce  their 
use  of  it  one-third,  and  puddings  or  cakes 
were  considered  on  any  table,  a  sinful 
extravagance.  When  the  government  was 
offering  large  premiums  to  farmers  for 
raising  extra  quantities  and  detailing 
soldiers  to  assist  in  threshing  it,  poor  bank- 
rupt spinners  must  have  had  a  hard  struggle 
for  a  bare  existence. 

Indeed,  education  was  hardly  thought 
possible,  and,  though  Joseph  managed,  "by 
hook  or  crook,"  to  learn  how  to  read,  write 
and  count  a  little,  it  was  through  difficulties 
and  discouragements  that  would  have  been 
fatal  to  any  ordinary  intelligence  or  will. 

Until  he  was  twenty-one  years  of  age  he 
worked  patiently  at  his  loom,  which  stood 
in  one  corner  of  a  cellar,  so  cold  and  damp 


158  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

that  its  walls  were  constantly  wet.  But  he 
was  hopeful,  and  even  in  those  dark  days 
dared  to  fall  in  love.  On  attaining  his 
majority,  he  received  a  legacy  of  ^30.  Then 
lie  married  the  poor  girl  who  had  made 
brighter  his  hard  apprenticeship,  and  lived 
happily  with  her  for  fifty  years. 

But  the  troubles  that  had  begun  before 
liis  birth — and  which  did  not  lighten  until 
after  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill,  in 
June,  1832 — had  then  attained  a  proportion 
which  taxed  the  utmost  energies  of  both 
private  charities  and  the  national  govern- 
ment. 

The  year  of  Joseph  L,ivesey's  marriage 
saw  the  passage  of  the  Corn  Laws,  and 
the  first  of  those  famous  mass  meetings 
in  Peter's  Field,  near  Manchester,  which 
undoubtedly  molded  the  future  temper  and 
status  of  the  English  weavers  and  spinners. 
From  one  of  these  meetings,  the  following 
year,  thousands  of  starving  men  started  en 
masse  to  London.  They  were  followed  by 
the  military  and  brought  back  for  punish- 
ment or  died  miserably  on  the  road,  though 
500  of  them  reached  Macclesfield  and  a 
smaller  number  Derby. 

But  Livesey,  though  probably  suffering 
as  keenly  as  others,  joined  no  body  of  riot- 
ers. He  borrowed  a  sovereign  and  bought 
two  cheeses;  then  cutting  them  up  into 
small  lots,  he  retailed  them  on  the  streets, 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  159 

Saturday  afternoons,  when  the  men  were 
released  from  work.  The  profit  from  this 
small  investment  exceeding  what  it  was 
possible  for  him  to  make  at  his  loom,  he 
continued  the  trade,  and  from  this  small 
beginning  founded  a  business,  and  made  a 
fortune  which  enabled  him  to  devote  a 
long  life  to  public  usefulness  and  benevo- 
lence. 

But  his  little  craft  must  have  needed 
skillful  piloting,  for  his  family  increased 
rapidly  during  the  disastrous  years  between 
1816  and  1832;  so  disastrous  that  in  1825-26 
the  Bank  of  England  was  obliged  to  author- 
ize the  Chamber  of  Commerce  to  make 
loans  to  individuals  carrying  on  large  works 
of  from  ^500  to  ;£  1 0,000.  Bankruptcies 
were  enormous,  trade  was  everywhere  stag- 
nant, ^60,000  were  subscribed  for  meal  and 
peas  to  feed  the  starving,  and  the  govern- 
ment issued  40,000  articles  of  clothing. 
The  quarrels  between  masters  and  spinners 
were  more  and  more  bitter,  mills  were 
everywhere  burnt,  and  at  Ashton  in  one 
day  30,000  "  hands"  turned  out. 

During  these  dreadful  years  every 
thoughtful  person  had  noticed  how  much 
misery  and  ill-will  was  caused  by  the  con- 
stant thronging  to  public  houses,  and  tem- 
perance societies  had  been  at  work  among 
the  angry  men  of  the  working  classes. 
Joseph  L,ivesey  had  been  actively  engaged 


160  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

in  this  work.  But  these  first  efforts  of  the 
temperance  cause  were  directed  entirely 
against  spirits.  The  use  of  wine  and  ale 
was  considered  then  a  necessity  of  life. 
Brewing  was  in  most  families  as  regular 
and  important  a  duty  as  baking;  the 
youngest  children  had  their  mug  of  ale; 
and  clergymen  were  spoken  of  without  re- 
proach as  "one, "  "two"  or  "three-bottle 
men." 

But  Joseph  Livesey  soon  became  satisfied 
that  these  half  measures  were  doing  no 
good  at  all,  and  in  1831  a  little  circum- 
stance decided  him  to  take  a  stronger  posi- 
tion. He  had  to  go  to  Blackburn  to  see  a 
person  on  business;  and,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  whiskey  was  put  on  the  table. 
Livesey  for  the  first  time  tasted  it,  and  was 
very  ill  in  consequence.  He  had  then  a 
large  family  of  boys,  and  both  for  their 
sakes  and  that  of  others,  he  resolved  to 
halt  no  longer  between  two  opinions. 

He  spoke  at  once  in  all  the  temperance 
meetings  of  the  folly  of  partial  reforms, 
pointed  out  the  hundreds  of  relapses,  and 
urged  upon  the  association  the  duty  of  ab- 
solute abstinence.  His  zeal  warmed  with 
his  efforts  and  he  insisted  that  in  the  mat- 
ter of  drinking  "the  golden  mean"  was  the 
very  sin  for  which  the  Laodicean  Church 
had  been  cursed. 

The  disputes  were  very  angry  and  bitter; 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  161 

far  more  so  than  we  at  this  day  can  believe 
possible,  unless  we  take  into  account  the 
universal  national  habits  and  its  poetic  and 
domestic  associations  with  every  phase  of 
Knglish  life.  But  he  gradually  gained 
adherents  to  his  views  though  it  was  not 
until  the  following  year  he  was  able  to  take 
another  step  forward. 

It  was  on  Thursday,  August  23,  1832, 
that  the  first  solemn  pledge  of  total  absti- 
nence was  taken.  That  afternoon  Joseph 
L,ivesey,  pondering  the  matter  in  his  mind, 
saw  John  King  pass  his  shop.  He  asked 
him  to  come  in  and  talk  the  subject  over 
with  him.  Before  they  parted  Livesey 
asked  King  if  he  would  join  him  in  a  pledge 
to  abstain  forever  from  all  liquors;  and 
King  said  he  would.  Livesey  then  wrote 
out  a  form  and,  laying  it  before  King,  said : 
''Thee  sign  it  first,  lad."  King  signed  it, 
Ivivesey  followed  him,  and  the  two  men 
clasped  hands  and  stood  pledged  to  one  of 
the  greatest  works  humanity  has  ever  un- 
dertaken. 

A  special  meeting  was  then  called,  and 
after  a  stormy  debate,  the  main  part  of  the 
audience  left,  a  small  number  remaining  to 
continue  the  argument.  But  the  end  of  it 
was  that  seven  men  came  forward  and  drew 
up  and  signed  the  following  document, 
which  is  still  preserved : 


1 62  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"We  agree  to  abstain  from  all  liquors  of  an 
intoxicating  quality,  whether  they  be  ale,  porter, 
wine  or  ardent  spirits,  except  as  medicine. 

' '  JOHN  GRATREX, 
EDWARD  DICKINSON, 
JOHN  BROADBENT, 
JNO.  SMITH, 
JOSEPH  LrvssEY, 
DAVID  ANDERTON, 
JNO.  KING." 

All  these  reformers  were  virtually  working 
men,  though  most  of  them  rose  to  positions 
of  respect  and  affluence.  Still  the  humility 
of  the  origin  of  the  movement  was  long  a 
source  of  contempt,  and  its  members,  within 
my  own  recollection,  had  the  stigma  of 
vulgarity  almost  in  right  of  their  con- 
victions. 

But  God  takes  hands  with  good  men's 
efforts,  and  the  cause  prospered  just  where 
it  was  most  needed — among  the  operatives 
and  "the  common  people."  One  of  these 
latter,  a  hawker  of  fish,  called  Richard 
Turner,  stood,  in  a  very  amusing  and  un- 
expected way,  sponsor  for  the  society. 
Richard  was  fluent  of  speech,  and,  if  his 
language  was  the  broadest  patois,  it  was, 
nevertheless,  of  the  most  convincing  char- 
acter. He  always  spoke  well,  and,  if  author- 
ized words  failed  him,  readily  coined  what 
he  needed.  One  night  while  making  a  very 
fervent  speech,  he  said:  "No  half-way 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  163 

measures  here.     Nothing  but  the  te-te -total 
will  do." 

Mr.  Livesey  at  once  seized  the  word, 
and,  rising,  proposed  it  as  the  name  of  the 
society.  The  proposition  was  received  with 
enthusiastic  cheering,  and  these  "root  and 
branch"  temperance  men  were  thencefor- 
ward known  as  teetotalers.  Richard  re- 
mained all  his  life  a  sturdy  advocate  of  the 
cause,  and  when  he  died,  in  1846,  I  made 
one  of  the  hundreds  and  thousands  that 
crowded  the  streets  of  the  beautiful  town  of 
Preston  and  followed  him  to  his  grave. 
The  stone  above  it  chronicles  shortly  his 
name  and  death,  and  the  fact  that  he  was 
the  author  of  a  wrord  known  now  wherever 
Christianity  and  civilization  are  known. 


164  Winter  Evening  Tales. 


MARGARET  SINCLAIR'S  SILENT 
MONEY. 

"It  was  ma  luck,  Sinclair,  an'  I  couldna 
win  by  it." 

"Ha'vers!  It  was  David  Vedder's  whis- 
key that  turned  ma  boat  tapsalteerie, 
Geordie  Twatt." 

"Thou  had  better  blame  Hacon;  he 
turned  the  boat  Widder shins  an'  what  fule 
doesna  ken  that  it  is  evil  luck  to  go  con- 
trarie  to  the  sun?" 

"It  is  waur  luck  to  have  a  drunken, 
superstitious  pilot.  Twatt,  that  Norse 
blood  i'  thy  veins  is  o'er  full  o'  freets. 
Fear  God,  an'  mind  thy  wark,  an'  thou 
needna  speir  o'  the  sun  what  'gate  to  turn 
the  boat." 

"My  Norse  blood  willna  stand  ony  Scot 
stirring  it  up,  Sinclair.  I  come  o'  a  mighty 
kind—" 

"Tush,  man!  Mules  mak'  an  unco'  full 
about  their  ancestors  having  been  horses. 
It  has  come  to  this,  Geordie:  thou  must  be 
laird  o'  theesel'  before  I'll  trust  thee  again 
with  ony  craft  o'  mine. ' '  Then  Peter  Sin- 
clair lifted  his  papers,  and,  looking  the 
discharged  sailor  steadily  in  the  face,  bid 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  165 

him  "go  on  his  penitentials  an'  think 
things  o'er  a  bit." 

Geordie  Twatt  went  sullenly  out,  but 
Peter  was  rather  pleased  with  himself;  he 
believed  that  he  had  done  his  duty  in  a 
satisfactory  manner.  And  if  a  man  was  in 
a  good  temper  with  himself,  it  was  just  the 
kind  of  even  to  increase  his  satisfaction. 
The  gray  old  town  of  Kirkwall  lay  in  super- 
natural glory,  the  wondrous  beauty  of  the 
mellow  gloaming  blending  with  soft  green 
and  rosy-red  spears  of  light  that  shot  from 
east  to  west,  or  charged  upward  to  the 
zenith.  The  great  herring  fleet  outside  the 
harbor  was  as  motionless  as  "a  paintedyfo?/ 
upon  a  painted  ocean" — the  men  were 
sleeping  or  smoking  upon  the  piers — not  a 
foot  fell  upon  the  flagged  streets,  and  the 
only  murmur  of  sound  was  round  the  public 
fountains,  where  a  few  women  were  perched 
on  the  bowl's  edge,  knitting  and  gossip- 
ing. 

Peter  Sinclair  was,  perhaps,  not  a  man 
inclined  to  analyze  such  things,  but  they 
had  their  influence  over  him;  for,  as  he 
drifted  slowly  home  in  his  skiff,  he  began 
to  pity  Geordie's  four  motherless  babies, 
and  to  wonder  if  he  had  been  as  patient 
with  him  as  he  might  have  been.  "An' 
yet,"  he  murmured,  "there's  the  loss  on 
the  goods,  an'  the  loss  o'  time,  and  the 
boat  to  steek  afresh  forbye  the  danger  to 


1 66  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

life!  Na,  na,  I'm  no  called  upon  to  put 
life  i'  peril  for  a  glass  o'  whiskey." 

Then  he  lifted  his  head,  and  there,  on 
the  white  sands,  stood  his  daughter  Mar- 
garet. He  was  conscious  of  a  great  thrill 
of  pride  as  he  looked  at  her,  for  Margaret 
Sinclair,  even  among  the  beautiful  women 
of  the  Orcades,  was  most  beautiful  of  all. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  had  fastened  his  skiff 
at  a  little  jetty,  and  was  walking  with  her 
over  the  springy  heath  toward  a  very  pretty 
house  of  white  stone.  It  was  his  own 
house,  and  he  was  proud,  of  it  also,  but  not 
half  so  proud  of  the  house  as  of  its  tiny 
garden;  for  there,  with  great  care  and  at 
great  cost,  he  had  managed  to  rear  a  few 
pansies,  snowdrops,  lilies  of  the  valley,  and 
other  hardy  English  flowers.  Margaret 
and  he  stooped  lovingly  over  them,  and  it 
was  wonderful  to  see  how  Peter's  face  soft- 
ened, and  how  gently  the  great  rough 
hands,  that  had  been  all  day  handling 
smoked  geese  and  fish,  touched  these  frail, 
trembling  blossoms. 

"Eh,  lassie!  I  could  most  greet  wi'  joy 
to  see  the  bonnie  bit  things;  when  I  can 
get  time  I'se  e'en  go  wi'  thee  to  Edinburgh ; 
I'd  like  weel  to  see  such  fields  an'  gardens 
an'  trees  as  I  hear  thee  tell  on." 

Then  Margaret  began  again  to  describe 
the  greenhouses,  the  meadows  and  wheat 
fields,  the  forests  of  oaks  and  beeches  she 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  167 

had  seen  during  her  school  days  in  Edin- 
burgh. Peter  listened  to  her  as  if  she  was 
telling  a  wonderful  fairy  story,  but  he  liked 
it,  and,  as  he  cut  slice  after  slice  from  his 
smoked  goose,  he  enjoyed  her  talk  of  roses 
and  apple-blossoms,  and  smacked  his  lips 
for  the  thousandth  time  when  she  described 
a  peach,  and  said,  "It  tasted,  father,  as  if 
it  had  been  grown  in  the  Garden  of  Eden." 

After  such  conversations  Peter  was  al- 
ways stern  and  strict.  He  felt  an  actual 
anger  at  Adam  and  Eve;  their  transgres- 
sion became  a  keenly  personal  affair,  for 
he  had  a  very  vivid  sense  of  the  loss  they 
had  entailed  upon  him.  The  vague  sense 
of  wrong  made  him  try  to  fix  it,  and,  after  a 
short  reflection,  he  said  in  an  injured  tone: 

"I  wonder  when  Ronald's  coming  hame 
again?" 

"Ronald  is  all  right,  father." 

"A'  wrong,  thou  means,  lassie.  There's 
three  vessels  waiting  to  be  loaded,  an'  the 
books  sae  far  ahint  that  I  kenna  whether 
I'm  losing  or  saving.  Where  is  he?" 

' '  Not  far  away.  He  will  be  at  the  Stones 
of  Stennis  this  week  some  time  with  an 
Englishman  he  fell  in  with  at  Perth. ' ' 

"I  wonder,  now,  was  it  for  my  sins  or 
his  ain  that  the  lad  has  sic  auld  world 
notions?  There  isna  a  pagan  altar-stane 
'tween  John  O' Groat's  an'  Lambaness  he 
doesna  run  after.  I  wish  he  were  as 


1 68  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

anxious  to  serve  in  the  Lord's  temple — I 
would  build  him  a  kirk  an'  a  manse  for  it." 

"We'll  be  proud  of  Ronald  yet,  father. 
The  Sinclairs  have  been  fighting  and  mak- 
ing money  for  centuries:  it  is  a  sign  of 
grace  to  have  a  scholar  and  a  poet  at  last 
among  them. ' ' 

Peter  grumbled.  His  ideas  of  poetry 
were  limited  by  the  Scotch  psalms,  and,  as 
for  scholarship,  he  asserted  that  the  books 
were  better  kept  when  he  used  his  own 
method  of  tallies  and  crosses.  Then  he 
remembered  Geordie  Twatt's  misfortune, 
and  had  his  little  grumble  out  on  this  sub- 
ject: "Boat  and  goods  might  hae  been  a 
total  loss,  no  to  speak  o'  the  lives  o' 
Geordie  an'  the  four  lads  wi'  him;  an*  a' 
for  the  sake  o'  liquor!" 

Margaret  looked  at  the  brandy  bottle 
standing  at  her  father's  elbow,  and,  though 
she  did  not  speak,  the  look  annoyed  Peter. 

1 '  You  arna  to  even  my  glass  wi '  his,  lassie. 
I  ken  when  to  stop— Geordie  never  does." 

"It  is  a  common  fault  in  more  things  than 
drinking,  father.  When  Magnus  Hay  has 
struck  the  first  blow  he  is  quite  ready  to 
draw  his  dirk  and  strike  the  last  one;  and 
Paul  Snackole,  though  he  has  made  gold  and 
to  spare,  will  just  go  on  making  gold  until 
death  takes  the  balances  out  of  his  hands. 
There  are  few  folks  that  in  all  things 
offend  not." 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  169 

She  looked  so  noble  standing  before  him, 
so  fair  and  tall,  her  hair  yellow  as  down, 
her  eyes  cool  and  calm  and  blue  as  night ; 
her  whole  attitude  so  serene,  assured  and 
majestic,  that  Peter  rose  uneasily,  left  his 
glass  unfinished,  and  went  away  with  a 
very  confused  "good  night." 

In  the  morning  the  first  thing  he  did 
when  he  reached  his  office,  was  to  send 
for  the  offending  sailor. 

' '  Geordie,  my  Margaret  says  there  are 
plenty  folk  as  bad  as  thou  art;  so,  thou'lt 
just  see  to  the  steeking  o'  the  boat,  an'  be 
ready  to  sail  her — or  upset  her — i'  ten  days 
again." 

"I'll  keep  her  right  side  up  for  Margaret 
Sinclair's  sake — tell  her  I  said  that,  Mas- 
ter. ' ' 

"I'se  do  no  promising  for  thee, Geordie. 
Between  wording  an'  working  is  a  lang 
road,  but  Kirkwall  an'  Stromness  kens  thee 
for  an  honest  lad,  an'  thou  wilt  mind  this — 
things  promised  are  things  due, ' ' 

Insensibly  this  act  of  forbearance  light- 
ened Peter's  whole  day;  he  was  good- 
tempered  with  the  world,  and  the  world 
returned  the  compliment.  When  night 
came,  and  he  watched  for  Margaret  on  the 
sands,  he  was  delighted  to  see  that  Ronald 
was  with  her.  The  lad  had  come  home 
and  nothing  was  now  remembered  against 
him.  That  night  it  was  Ronald  told  him 


170  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

fairy-stories  of  great  cities  and  universities, 
of  miles  of  books  and  pictures,  of  wonder- 
ful machinery  and  steam  engines,  of  deli- 
cious things  to  eat  and  drink.  Peter  felt 
as  if  he  must  start  southward  by  the  next 
mail  packet,  but  in  the  morning  he  thought 
more  unselfishly. 

"There  are  forty  families  depending  on 
me  sticking  to  the  shop  an'  the  boats,  Ron- 
ald, an'  I  canna  go  pleasuring  till  there  is 
ane  to  step  into  my  shoes. ' ' 

Ronald  Sinclair  had  all  the  fair,  stately 
beauty  and  noble  presence  of  his  sister,  but 
yet  there  was  some  lack  about  him  easier 
to  feel  than  to  define.  Perhaps  no  one  was 
unconscious  of  this  lack  except  Margaret; 
but  women  have  a  grand  invention  where 
their  idols  are  concerned,  and  create  readily 
for  them  every  excellency  that  they  lack. 
Her  own  two  years'  study  in  an  Edinburgh 
boarding-school  had  been  very  superficial, 
and  she  knew  it;  but  this  wonderful  Ronald 
could  read  Homer  and  Horace,  could  play 
and  sketch,  and  recite  Shakespeare  and 
write  poetry.  If  he  could  have  done  none 
of  these  things,  if  he  had  been  dull  and 
ugly,  and  content  to  trade  in  fish  and  wool, 
she  would  still  have  loved  him  tenderly ;  how 
much  more  then,  this  handsome  Antinous, 
whom  she  credited  with  all  the  accomplish- 
ments of  Apollo. 

Ronald     needed     all    her    enthusiastic 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  171 

support.  He  had  left  heavy  college  bills,  and 
he  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
would  not  be  a  minister  and  that  he  would 
be  a  lawyer.  He  could  scarcely  have  de- 
cided on  two  things  more  offensive  to  his 
father.  Only  for  the  hope  of  having  a 
minister  in  the  family  had  Peter  submitted 
to  his  son's  continued  demands  for  money. 
For  this  end  he  had  bought  books,  and 
paid  for  all  kinds  of  teachers  and  tours, 
and  sighed  over  the  cost  of  Ronald's 
different  hobbies.  And  now  he  was  not 
only  to  have  a  grievous  disappointment, 
but  also  a  great  offence,  for  Peter  Sinclair 
shared  fully  in  the  Arcadean  dislike  and 
distrust  of  lawyers,  and  would  have  been 
deeply  offended  at  any  one  requiring  their 
aid  in  any  business  transaction  with  him. 

His  son's  proposal  to  be  a  "writer"  he 
took  almost  as  a  personal  insult.  He  had 
formed  his  own  opinion  of  the  profession 
and  the  opinion  of  any  other  person  who 
would  say  a  word  in  favor  of  a  lawyer  he 
considered  of  no  value.  Margaret  had  a 
hard  task  before  her,  that  she  succeeded  at 
all  was  due  to  her  womanly  tact.  Ronald 
and  his  father  simply  clashed  against  each 
other  and  exchanged  pointed  truths  which 
hurt  worse  than  wounds.  At  length,  when 
the  short  Arcadean  summer  was  almost  over, 
Margaret  won  a  hard  and  reluctant  consent. 

"The  lad  is   fit   for  naething   better,   I 


172  Winter  Evening  J^ales. 

suppose" — and  the  old  man  turned  away  to 
shed  the  bitterest  tears  of  his  whole  life. 
They  shocked  Margaret;  she  was  terrified 
at  her  success,  and,  falling  humbly  at  his 
feet,  she  besought  him  to  forget  and  for- 
give her  importunities,  and  to  take  back  a 
gift  baptized  with  such  ominous  tears. 

But  Peter  Sinclair,  having  been  com- 
pelled to  take  such  a  step,  was  not  the  man 
to  retrace  it;  he  shook  his  head  in  a  dour, 
hopeless  way:  "He  couldna  say  'yes'  an' 
'no'  in  a  breath,  an'  Ronald  must  e'en 
drink  as  he  brewed. ' ' 

These  struggles,  so  real  and  sorrowful  to 
his  father  and  sister,  Ronald  had  no  sym- 
pathy with — not  that  he  was  heartless,  but 
that  he  had  taught  himself  to  believe  they 
were  the  result  of  ignorance  of  the  world 
and  old-fashioned  prejudices.  He  certainly 
intended  to  become  a  great  man — perhaps 
a  judge — and,  when  he  was  one  of  "the 
Lords,"  he  had  no  doubt  his  father  would 
respect  his  disobedience.  He  knew  his 
father  as  little  as  he  knew  himself.  Peter 
Sinclair  was  only  Peter  Sinclair's  opinions 
incorporate;  and  he  could  no  more  have 
changed  them  than  he  could  have  changed 
the  color  of  his  eyes  or  the  shape  of  his 
nose;  and  the  difference  between  a  common 
lawyer  and  a  "lord,"  in  his  eyes,  would 
only  have  been  the  difference  between  a 
little  oppressor  and  a  great  one. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  173 

For  the  first  time  in  all  her  life  Margaret 
suspected  a  flaw  in  this  perfect  crystal  of  a 
brother;  his  gay  debonnaire  manner  hurt 
her.  Even  if  her  father's  objections  were 
ignorant  prejudices,  they  were  positive 
convictions  to  him,  and  she  did  not  like  to 
see  them  smiled  at,  entertained  by  the  cast 
of  the  eye,  and  the  put-by  of  the  turning 
hand.  But  loving  women  are  the  greatest 
of  philistines:  knock  their  idol  down  daily, 
rob  it  of  every  beauty,  cut  off  its  hands  and 
head,  and  they  will  still  ''set  it  up  in  its 
place, ' '  and  fall  down  and  worship  it. 

Undoubtedly  Margaret  was  one  of  the 
blindest  of  these  characters,  but  the  world 
may  pause  before  it  scorns  them  too  bitterly. 
It  is  faith  of  this  sublime  integrity  which, 
brought  down  to  personal  experience,  be- 
lieves, endures,  hopes,  sacrifices  and  loves 
on  to  the  end,  winning  finally  what  never 
would  have  been  given  to  a  more  prudent 
and  reasonable  devotion.  So,  if  Margaret 
had  her  doubts,  she  put  them  arbitrarily 
down,  and  sent  her  brother  away  with 
manifold  tokens  of  her  love — among  them, 
with  a  check  on  the  Kirkwall  Bank  for 
sixty  pounds,  the  whole  of  her  personal 
savings. 

To  this  frugal  Arcadean  maid  it  seemed 
a  large  sum,  but  she  hoped  b}'  the  sacrifice 
to  clear  off  Ronald's  college  debts,  and  thus 
enable  him  to  start  his  new  race  unweighted. 


174  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

It  was  but  a  mouthful  to  each  creditor,  but 
it  put  them  off  for  a  time,  and  Ronald  was 
not  a  youth  inclined  to  "take  thought"  for 
their  "to-morrow." 

He  had  been  entered  for  four  years'  study 
with  the  firm  of  Wilkes  &  Brechen,  writers 
and  conveyancers,  of  the  city  of  Glasgow. 
Her  father  had  paid  the  whole  fee  down, 
and  placed  in  the  Western  Bank  to  his 
credit  four  hundred  pounds  for  his  four 
years'  support.  Whatever  Ronald  thought 
of  the  provision,  Peter  considered  it  a  mag- 
nificent income,  and  it  had  cost  him  a 
great  struggle  to  give  up  at  once,  and  for 
no  evident  return,  so  much  of  his  hard- 
earned  gold.  To  Ronald  he  said  nothing 
of  this  reluctance;  he  simply  put  vouchers 
for  both  transactions  in  his  hand,  and  asked 
him  to  "try  an'  spend  the  siller  as  weel  as 
it  had  been  earned. ' ' 

But  to  Margaret  he  fretted  not  a  little. 
(<  Fourteen  hun'red  pounds  a*  thegither, 
dawtie,"  he  said  in  a  tearful  voice.  "I 
warked  early  an'  late  through  mony  a  year 
for  it;  an'  it  is  gane  a'  at  once,  though  I 
hae  naught  but  words  an'  promises  for  it. 
I  ken,  Margaret,  that  I  am  an  auld  farrant 
trader,  but  I'se  aye  say  that  it  is  a  bad  well 
into  which  ane  must  put  water." 

When  Ronald  went,  the  summer  went 
too.  It  became  necessary  to  remove  at 
once  to  their  rock- built  house  in  one  of  the 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  175 

narrow  streets  of  Kirkwall.  Margaret  was 
glad  of  the  change ;  her  father  could  come 
into  the  little  parlor  behind  the  shop  any 
time  in  the  day  and  smoke  his  pipe  beside 
her.  He  needed  this  consolation  sorely; 
his  son's  conduct  had  grieved  him  far  more 
deeply  than  he  would  allow,  and  Margaret 
often  saw  him  gazing  southward  over  the 
stormy  Pentland  Frith  with  a  very  mourn- 
ful face. 

But  a  good  heart  soon  breaks  bad  fortune 
and  Peter  had  a  good  heart,  sound  and 
sweet  and  true  to  his  fellow-creatures  and 
full  of  faith  in  God.  It  is  true  that  his 
creed  was  of  the  very  strictest  and  sternest ; 
but  men  are  always  better  than  their 
theology*  and  Margaret  knew  from  the 
Scriptures  chosen  for  their  household  wor- 
ship that  in  the  depth  and  stillness  of  his 
soul  his  human  fatherhood  had  anchored 
fast  to  the  fatherhood  of  God. 

Arcadean  winters  are  long  and  dreary, 
but  no  one  need  much  pity  the  Arcadeans ; 
they  have  learned  how  to  make  them  the 
very  festival  of  social  life.  And,  in  spite 
of  her  anxiety  about  Ronald,  Margaret 
thoroughly  enjoyed  this  one — perhaps  the 
more  because  Captain  Olave  Thorkald 
spent  two  months  of  it  with  them  in  Kirk- 
wall.  There  had  been  a  long  attachment 
between  the  young  soldier  and  Margaret; 
and  having  obtained  his  commission,  he 


1 76  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

had  come  to  ask  also  for  the  public  recog- 
nition of  their  engagement.  Margaret  was 
rarely  beautiful  and  rarely  happy,  and  she 
carried  with  a  charming  and  kindly  grace 
the  full  cup  of  her  felicity.  The  Arcadeans 
love  to  date  from  a  good  year,  and  all  her 
life  afterward  Margaret  reckoned  events 
from  this  pleasant  winter. 

Peter  Sinclair's  house  being  one  of  the 
largest  in  Kirkwall,  was  a  favorite  gather- 
ing place,  and  Peter  took  his  full  share  in 
all  the  home-like,  innocent  amusements 
which  beguiled  the  long,  dreary  nights. 
No  one  in  Orkney  or  Zetland  could  recite 
Ossian  with  more  passion  and  tenderness, 
and  he  enjoyed  his  little  triumph  over  the 
youngsters  who  emulated  him.  No  one  could 
sing  a  Scotch  song  with  more  humor,  and 
few  of  the  lads  and  lassies  could  match 
Peter  in  a  blithe  foursome  reel  or  a  rattling 
strathspey.  Some,  indeed,  thought  that 
good  Dr.  Ogilvie  had  a  more  graceful 
spring  and  a  longer  breath,  but  Peter  al- 
ways insisted  that  his  inferiority  to  the 
minister  was  a  voluntary  concession  to  the 
Dominie's  superior  dignity.  It  wras,  how- 
ever, a  rivalry  that  always  ended  in  a 
firmer  grip  at  parting.  These  little  fes- 
tivals, in  which  young  and  old  freely 
mingled,  cultivated  to  perfection  the  best 
and  kindest  feelings  of  both  classes.  Age 
mellowed  to  perfect  sweetness  in  the 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  177 

sunshine  of  youthful  gayety,  and  youth 
learned  from  age  how  at  once  to  be  merry 
and  wise. 

At  length  June  arrived;  and  though 
winter  lingered  in  spates,  the  song  of  the 
skylark  and  the  thrush  heralded  the  spring. 
When  the  dream-like  voice  of  the  cuckoo 
should  be  heard  once  more,  Peter  and  Mar- 
garet had  determined  to  take  a  long  summer 
trip.  They  were  to  go  first  to  Perth,  where 
Captain  Thorkald  was  stationed,  and  then 
to  Glasgow  and  see  Ronald.  But  God  had 
planned  another  journey  for  Peter,  even 
one  to  a  "land  very  far  off ."  A  disease, 
to  which  he  had  been  subject  at  intervals 
for  many  years,  suddenly  assumed  a  fatal 
character  and  Peter  needed  no  one  to  tell 
him  that  his  days  were  numbered. 

He  set  his  house  in  order,  and  then, 
going  with  Margaret  to  his  summer  dwell- 
ing, waited  quietly.  He  said  little  on  the 
subject,  and  as  long  as  he  was  able,  gave 
himself  up  with  the  delight  of  a  child  to- 
watching  the  few  flowers  in  his  garden; 
but  still  one  solemn,  waylaying  thought 
made  these  few  last  weeks  of  life  peculiarly 
hushed  and  sacred.  Ronald  had  been  sent 
for,  and  the  old  man,  with  the  clear  pre- 
science that  sometimes  comes  before  death, 
divined  much  and  foresaw  much  he  did  not 
care  to  speak  about — only  that  in  some 
subtle  way  he  made  Margaret  perceive  that 


178  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Ronald  was  to  be  cared  for  and  watched 
over,  and  that  to  her  this  charge  was  com- 
mitted. 

Before  the  summer  was  quite  over  Peter 
Sinclair  went  away.  In  his  tarrying  by 
the  eternal  shore  he  became,  as  it  were, 
purified  of  the  body,  and  one  lovely  night, 
when  gloaming  and  dawning  mingled, 
and  the  lark  was  thrilling  the  midnight 
skies,  he  heard  the  Master  call  him,  and 
promptly  answered,  "Here  am  I."  Then 
' '  Death,  with  sweet  enlargement,  did  dis- 
miss him  hence. ' ' 

He  had  been  considered  a  rich  man  in 
Orkney,  and,  therefore,  Ronald — who  had 
become  accustomed  to  a  Glasgow  standard 
of  wealth — was  much  disappointed.  His 
whole  estate  was  not  worth  over  six  thou- 
sand pounds ;  about  two  thousand  pounds  of 
this  was  in  gold,  the  rest  was  invested  in 
his  houses  in  Kirkwall,  and  in  a  little  cot- 
tage in  Stromness,  where  Peter's  wife  had 
been  born.  He  gave  to  Ronald  ^1800,  and 
to  Margaret  ^200  and  the  life  rent  of  the 
real  property.  Ronald  had  already  received 
^1400,  and,  therefore,  had  no  cause  of 
complaint,  but  somehow  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
been  wronged.  He  was  older  than  his  sis- 
ter, and  the  son  of  the  house,  and  use  and 
custom  were  not  in  favor  of  recognizing 
daughters  as  having  equal  rights.  But  he 
kept  such  thoughts  to  himself,  and  when  he 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  1/9 

went  back  to  Glasgow  took  with  him  solid 
proof  of  his  sister's  devotion. 

It  was  necessary,  now,  for  Margaret  tc 
make  a  great  change  in  her  life.  She  de- 
termined to  remove  to  Stromness  and 
occupy  the  little  four-roomed  cottage  that 
had  been  her  mother's.  It  stood  close  to 
that  of  Geordie  Twatt,  and  she  felt  that  in 
any  emergency  she  was  thus  sure  of  one 
faithful  friend.  "A  lone  woman"  in  Mar- 
garet's position  has  in  these  days  number- 
less objects  of  interest  of  which  Margaret 
never  dreamed.  She  would  have  thought 
it  a  kind  of  impiety  to  advise  her 
minister,  or  meddle  in  church  affairs. 
These  simple  parents  attended  themselves 
to  the  spiritual  training  of  their  children — 
there  was  no  necessity  for  Sunday  Schools, 
and  they  did  not  exist.  She  was  not  one  of 
those  women  whom  their  friends  call 
"beings,"  and  who  have  deep  and  mys- 
terious feelings  that  interpret  themselves  in 
poems  and  thrilling  stories.  She  had  no 
taste  for  philosophy  or  history  or  social 
science,  and  had  been  taught  to  regard 
novels  as  dangerously  sinful  books. 

But  no  one  need  imagine  that  she  was 
either  wretched  or  idle.  In  the  first  place, 
she  took  life  much  more  calmly  and  slowly 
than  we  do;  a  very  little  pleasure  or  em- 
ployment went  a  long  way.  She  read  her 
Bible  and  helped  her  old  servant  Helga  to 


180  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

keep  the  house  in  order.  She  had  her  flowers 
to  care  for, — and  her  brother  and  lover  to 
write  to.  She  looked  after  Geordie  Twatt's 
little  motherless  lads,  went  to  church  and 
to  see  her  friends,  and  very  often  had  her 
triends  to  see  her.  It  happened  to  be  a 
very  stormy  winter,  and  the  mails  were 
often  delayed  for  weeks  together.  This 
was  her  only  trouble.  Ronald's  letters 
were  more  and  more  unsatisfactory ;  he  was 
evidently  unhappy  and  dissatisfied  and 
heartily  tired  of  his  new  study.  Posts  were 
so  irregular  that  often  their  letters  seemed 
to  be  playing  at  cross  purposes.  She  deter- 
mined as  soon  as  spring  opened  to  go  and 
have  a  straightforward  talk  with  him. 

So  the  following  June  Geordie  Twatt 
took  her  in  his  boat  to  Thurso,  where  Cap- 
tain Thorkald  was  waiting  for  her.  They 
had  not  met  since  Peter  Sinclair's  death, 
and  that  event  had  materially  affected  their 
prospects.  Before  it  their  marriage  had 
been  a  possible  joy  in  some  far  future;  now 
there  was  no  greater  claim  on  her  care  and 
love  than  the  captain's,  and  he  urged  their 
early  marriage. 

Margaret  had  her  two  hundred  pounds 
with  her,  and  she  promised  to  buy  her 
''plenishing"  during  her  visit  to  Glasgow. 
In  those  days  girls  made  their  own  trous- 
seau, sewing  into  every  garment  solemn  and 
tender  hopes  and  joys.  Margaret  thought 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  181 

that  proper  attention  to  this  dear  stitching 
as  well  as  proper  respect  for  her  father's 
memory,  asked  of  her  yet  at  least  another 
year's  delay;  and  for  the  present  Captain 
Thorkald  thought  it  best  not  to  urge  her 
further. 

Ronald  received  his  sister  very  joyfully. 
He  had  provided  lodgings  for  her  with  their 
father's  old  correspondent,  Robert  Gorie,  a 
tea  merchant  in  the  Cowcaddens.  The 
Cowcaddens  was  then  a  very  respectable 
street,  and  Margaret  was  quite  pleased  with 
her  quarters.  She  was  not  pleased  with 
Ronald,  however.  He  avowed  himself 
thoroughly  disgusted  with  the  law,  and 
declared  his  intention  of  forfeiting  his  fee 
and  joining  his  friend  Walter  Cashell  in  a 
manufacturing  scheme. 

Margaret  could  feel  that  he  was  all  wrong, 
but  she  could  not  reason  about  a  business 
of  which  she  knew  nothing,  and  Ronald 
took  his  own  way.  But  changing  and  bet- 
tering are  two  different  things,  and,  though 
he  was  always  talking  of  his  "good  luck" 
and  his  "good  bargains,"  Margaret  was 
very  uneasy.  Perhaps  Robert  Gorie  was 
partly  to  blame  for  this;  his  pawky  face 
and  shrewd  little  eyes  made  visible  dissents 
to  all  such  boasts;  nor  did  he  scruple  to 
say,  "Guid  luck  needs  guid  elbowing, 
Ronald,  an'  it  is  at  fas.  guid  bargains  I  aye 
pause  an'  ponder. ' ' 


•£ 82  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

The  following  winter  was  a  restless,  un- 
happy one;  Ronald  was  either  painfully 
elated  or  very  dull;  and,  soon  after  the 
New  Year,  Walter  Cashell  fell  into  bad 
health,  went  to  the  West  Indies,  and  left 
Ronald  with  the  whole  business  to  manage. 
He  soon  now  began  to  come  to  his  sister, 
not  only  for  advice,  but  for  money.  Mar- 
garet believed  at  first  that  she  was  only 
supplying  Walter's  sudden  loss,  but  when 
her  cash  was  all  gone,  and  Ronald  urged 
her  to  mortgage  her  rents  she  resolutely 
shut  her  ears  to  all  his  plausible  promises, 
and  refused  to  ' '  throw  more  good  money 
after  bad. ' ' 

It  was  the  first  ill-blood  between  them,, 
and  it  hurt  Margaret  sorely.  She  was  glad 
when  the  fine  weather  came,  and  she  could 
escape  to  her  island  home,  for  Ronald  was 
cool  to  her,  and  said  cruel  things  of  Captain 
Thorkald,  for  whose  sake  he  declared  his 
sister  had  refused  to  help  him. 

One  day,  at  the  end  of  the  following 
August,  when  most  of  the  towns-people — 
men  and  women — had  gone  to  the  moss  to 
cut  the  winter's  peat,  she  saw  Geordie 
Twatt  coming  toward  the  house.  Some- 
thing about  his  appearance  troubled  her, 
and  she  went  to  the  open  door  and  stood 
waiting  for  him. 

"What  is  it,  Geordie?" 

"I   am    bidden    to   tell    thee,    Margaret 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  183 

Sinclair,  to  be  at  the  Stanes  o'  Stennis 
to-night  at  eleven  o'clock." 

' '  Who  trysts  me  there,  Geordie,  at  such 
an  hour?" 

"Thy  brother;  but  thou'lt  come — yes, 
thou  wilt. ' ' 

Margaret's  very  lips  turned  white  as  she 
answered:  "Il'l  be  there — see  thou  art, 
too." 

' '  Sure  as  death !  If  naebody  spiers  after 
me,  thou  needna  say  I  was  here  at  a',  thou 
needna. ' ' 

Margaret  understood  the  caution,  and 
nodded  her  head.  She  could  not  speak, 
and  all  day  long  she  wandered  about  like  a 
soul  in  a  restless  dream. 

Fortunately,  every  one  was  weary  at 
night,  and  went  early  to  rest,  and  she  found 
little  difficulty  in  getting  outside  the  town 
without  notice ;  and  one  of  the  ponies  on  the 
common  took  her  speedily  across  the  moor. 

Late  as  it  was,  twilight  lingered  over  the 
silent  moor,  with  its  old  Pictish  mounds 
and  burial  places,  giving  them  an  inde- 
scribable aspect  of  something  weird  and 
eerie.  No  one  could  have  been  insensible 
to  the  mournful,  brooding  light  and  the 
unearthly  stillness,  and  Margaret  was  trem- 
bling with  a  supernatural  terror  as  she  stood 
amid  the  solemn  circle  of  gray  stones  and 
looked  over  the  lake  of  Stennis  and  the  low, 
brown  hills  of  Harray. 


1 84  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

From  behind  one  of  these  gigantic  pillars 
Ronald  came  toward  her — Ronald,  and  yet 
not  Ronald.  He  was  dressed  as  a  common 
sailor,  and  otherwise  shamefully  disguised. 
There  was  no  time  to  soften  things — he  told 
his  miserable  story  in  a  few  plain  words: 

His  business  had  become  so  entangled 
that  he  knew  not  which  way  to  turn,  and, 
sick  of  the  whole  affair,  he  had  taken  a 
passage  for  Australia,  and  then  forged  a 
note  on  the  Western  Bank  for  ^900.  He 
had  hoped  to  be  far  at  sea  with  his  ill- 
gotten  money  before  the  fraud  was  dis- 
covered, but  suspicion  had  gathered  around 
him  so  quickly,  that  he  had  not  even  dared 
to  claim  his  passage.  Then  he  fled  north, 
and,  fortunately,  discovering  Geordie's 
boat  at  Wick,  had  easily  prevailed  on  him 
to  put  off  at  once  with  him. 

What  cowards  sin  makes  of  us!  Mar- 
garet had  seen  this  very  lad  face  death 
often,  among  the  sunken  rocks  and  cruel 
surfs,  that  he  might  save  the  life  of  a  ship- 
wrecked sailor,  and  now,  rather  than  meet 
the  creditors  whom  he  had  wronged,  he  had 
committed  a  robbery  and  was  flying  from 
the  gallows. 

She  was  shocked  and  stunned,  and  stood 
speechless,  wringing  her  hands  and  moan- 
ing pitifully.  Her  brother  grew  impatient. 
Often  the  first  result  of  a  bitter  sense  of  sin 
is  to  make  the  sinner  peevish  and  irritable. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  185 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  almost  angrily,  "I 
came  to  bid  you  farewell,  and  to  promise 
you,  by  my  father3 s  name!  to  retrieve  all 
this  wrong.  If  you  can  speak  a  kind  word 
speak  it,  for  God's  sake — if  not,  I  must  go 
without  it!" 

Then  she  fell  upon  his  neck,  and,  amid 
sobs  and  kisses,  said  all  that  love  so  sorely 
and  suddenly  tried  could  say.  He  could 
not  even  soothe  her  anguish  by  any  promise 
to  write,  but  he  did  promise  to  come  back 
to  her  sooner  or  later  with  restitution  in  his 
hand.  All  she  could  do  now  for  this  dear 
brother  was  to  call  Geordie  to  her  side  and 
put  him  in  his  care;  taking  what  consola- 
tion she  could  from  his  assurance  that  "he 
would  keep  him  out  at  sea  until  the  search 
was  cold,  and  if  followed  carry  him  into 
some  of  the  dangerous  'races'  between  the 
islands. ' '  If  any  sailor  could  keep  his  boat 
above  water  in  them,  she  knew  Geordie 
could;  and  if  not — she  durst  follow  that 
thought  no  further,  but,  putting  her  hands 
before  her  face,  stood  praying,  while  the 
two  men  pulled  silently  away  in  the  little 
skiff  that  had  brought  them  up  the  outlet 
connecting  the  lake  of  Stennis  with  the  sea. 
Margaret  would  have  turned  away  from 
Ronald's  open  grave  less  heart-broken. 

It  was  midnight  now,  but  her  real  terror 
absorbed  all  imaginary  ones;  she  did  not 
even  call  a  pony,  but  with  swift,  even  steps 


1 86  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

walked  back  to  Stromness.  Ere  she  had 
reached  it,  she  had  decided  what  was  to  be 
done,  and  next  day  she  left  Kirkwall  in  the 
mail  packet  for  the  mainland.  Thence  by 
night  and  day  she  traveled  to  Glasgow,  and 
a  week  after  her  interview  with  Ronald  she 
was  standing  before  the  directors  of  the  de- 
frauded bank  and  offering  them  the  entire 
proceeds  of  her  Kirkwall  property  until  the 
debt  was  paid. 

The  bank  had  thoroughly  respected  Peter 
Sinclair,  and  his  daughter's  earnest,  decided 
offer  won  their  ready  sympathy.  It  was 
accepted  without  any  question  of  interest, 
though  she  could  not  hope  to  clear  off  the 
obligation  in  less  than  nine  years.  She  did 
not  go  near  any  of  her  old  acquaintances; 
she  had  no  heart  to  bear  their  questions  and 
condolences,  and  she  had  no  money  to  stay 
in  Glasgow  at  charges.  Winter  was  com- 
ing on  rapidly,  but  before  it  broke  over  the 
lonely  islands  she  had  reached  her  cottage 
in  Stromness  again. 

There  had  been,  of  course,  much  talk 
concerning  her  hasty  journey,  but  no  one 
had  suspected  its  cause.  Indeed,  the  pur- 
suit after  Ronald  had  been  entirely  the 
bank's  affair,  had  been  committed  to  private 
detectives  and  had  not  been  nearly  so  hot 
as  the  frightened  criminal  believed.  His 
failure  and  flight  had  indeed  been  noticed 
in  the  Glasgow  newspapers,  but  this 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  187 

information  did  not  reach  Kirkwall  until 
the  following  spring,  and  then  in  a  very 
indefinite  form. 

About  a  week  after  her  return,  Geordie 
Twatt  came  into  port.  Margaret  frequently 
went  to  his  cottage  with  food  or  clothing 
for  the  children,  and  she  contrived  to  meet 
.him  there. 

"Yon  lad  is  a'  right,  indeed  is  he,"  he 
said,  with  an  assumption  of  indifference. 

"Oh,  Geordie!  where?" 

"A  ship  going  westward  took  him  off  the 
boat. ' ' 

"Thank  God!  You  will  say  naught  at 
all,  Geordie?" 

"I  ken  naught  at  a'  save  that  his  father's 
son  was  i'  trouble,  an'  trying  to  gie  thae 
weary,  unchancy  lawyers  the  go-by.  I  was 
fain  eneuch  mesel'  to  balk  them." 

But  Margaret's  real  trials  were  all  yet  to 
come.  The  mere  fact  of  doing  a  noble 
deed  does  not  absolve  one  often  from  very 
mean  and  petty  consequences.  Before  the 
winter  was  half  over  she  had  found  out 
how  rapid  is  the  descent  from  good  report. 
The  neighbors  were  deeply  offended  at  her 
for  giving  up  the  social  tea  parties  and 
evening  gatherings  that  had  made  the 
house  of  Sinclair  popular  for  more  than  one 
generation.  She  gave  still  greater  offence 
by  becoming  a  workingwoman,  and  spend- 
ing her  days  in  braiding  straw  into  the 


1 88  Winter  Evening  TaJes. 

(once)  famous  Orkney  Tuscans,  and  her 
long  evenings  in  the  manufacture  of  those 
delicate  knitted  goods  peculiar  to  the 
country. 

It  was  not  alone  that  they  grudged  her  the 
money  for  these  labors,  as  so  much  out  of 
their  own  pockets — they  grudged  her  also 
the  time;  for  they  had  been  long  accus- 
tomed to  rely  on  Margaret  Sinclair  for  their 
children's  garments,  for  nursing  the  sick 
and  for  help  in  weddings,  funerals  and  all  the 
other  extraordinary  occasions  of  sympathy 
among  a  primitively  social  people. 

Little  by  little,  all  winter,  the  sentiment 
of  disapproval  and  dislike  gathered.  Some 
one  soon  found  out  that  Margaret's  tenants 
"just  sent  every  bawbee  o'  the  rent-siller 
to  the  Glasgow  Bank;"  and  this  was  a 
double  offence,  as  it  implied  a  distrust  of 
her  own  townsfolk  and  institutions.  If 
from  her  humble  earnings  she  made  a  little 
gift  to  any  common  object  its  small  amount 
was  a  fresh  source  of  anger  and  contempt ; 
for  none  knew  how  much  she  had  to  deny 
herself  even  for  such  curtailed  gratuities. 

In  fact,  Margaret  Sinclair's  sudden 
stinginess  and  indifference  to  her  towns- 
folk was  the  common  wonder  and  talk  of 
every  little  gathering.  Old  friends  began 
to  either  pointedly  reprove  her,  or  pointedly 
ignore  her ;  and  at  last  even  old  Helga  took 
the  popular  tone  and  saia,  "Margaret 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  189 

Sinclair  had  got  too  scrimping  for  an  auld 
wife  like  her  to  bide  wi'  langer." 

Through  all  this  Margaret  suffered 
keenly.  At  first  she  tried  earnestly  to 
make  her  old  friends  understand  that  she 
had  good  reasons  for  her  conduct ;  but  as 
she  would  not  explain  these  good  reasons, 
she  failed  in  her  endeavor.  She  had 
imagined  that  her  good  conscience  would 
support  her,  and  that  she  could  live  very 
well  without  love  and  sympathy ;  she  soon 
found  out  that  it  is  a  kind  of  negative 
punishment  worse  than  many  stripes. 

At  the  end  of  the  winter  Captain  Thor- 
kald  again  earnestly  pressed  their  marriage, 
saying  that,  "his  regiment  was  ordered  to 
Chelsea,  and  any  longer  delay  might  be  a 
final  one."  He  proposed  also,  that  his 
father,  the  Udaller  Thorkald  of  Serwick, 
should  have  charge  of  her  Orkney  prop- 
erty, as  he  understood  its  value  and 
changes.  Margaret  wrote  and  frankly  told 
him  that  her  property  was  not  hers  for  at 
least  seven  years,  but  that  it  was  under 
good  care,  and  he  must  accept  her  word 
without  explanation.  Out  of  this  only 
grew  a  very  unsatisfactory  correspondence. 
Captain  Thorkald  went  south  without  Mar- 
garet, and  a  very  decided  coolness  separated 
them  farther  than  any  number  of  miles. 

Udaller  Thorkald  was  exceedingly  angry, 
and  his  remarks  about  Margaret  Sinclair's 


190  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

refusal  "to  trust  her  bit  property  in  as  guid 
hands  as  her  own"  increased  very  much 
the  bitter  feeling  against  the  poor  girl.  At 
the  end  of  three  years  the  trial  became  too 
great  for  her;  she  began  to  think  of  run- 
ning away  from  it. 

Throughout  these  dark  days  she  had  pur- 
posely and  pointedly  kept  apart  from  her 
old  friend  Dr.  Ogilvie,  for  she  feared  his  in- 
fluence over  her  might  tempt  her  to  con- 
fidence. Latterly  the  doctor  had  humored 
her  evident  desire,  but  he  had  never  ceased 
to  watch  over  and,  in  a  great  measure,  to 
believe  in  her;  and,  when  he  heard  of  this 
determination  to  quit  Orkney  forever,  he 
<:ame  to  Stromness  with  a  resolution  to 
-Spare  no  efforts  to  win  her  confidence. 

He  spoke  very  solemnly  and  tenderly  to 
her,  reminded  her  of  her  father's  generosity 
-and  good  gifts  to  the  church  and  the  poor, 
.and  said:  "O,  Margaret,  dear  lass!  what 
good  at  a'  will  thy  silent  money  do  thee  in 
that  Day  ?  It  ought  to  speak  for  thee  out  o' 
the  mouths  o'  the  sorrowfu'  an'  the  needy, 
the  widows  an'  the  fatherless — indeed  it 
•ought.  And  thou  hast  gien  naught  for  thy 
Master's  sake  these  three  years!  I'm  fair 
'shamed  to  think  thou  bears  sae  kind  a 
name  as  thy  father's." 

What  could  Margaret  do  ?  She  broke  into 
passionate  sobbing,  and,  when  the  good 
•old  man  left  ti.e  cottage  an  hour  afterward 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  191 

there  was  a  strange  light  on  his  face, 
and  he  walked  and  looked  as  if  he  had 
come  from  some  interview  that  had  set  him 
for  a  little  space  still  nearer  to  the  angels. 
Margaret  had  now  one  true  friend,  and 
in  a  few  days  after  this  she  rented  her 
cottage  and  went  to  live  with  the  dominie. 
Nothing  could  have  so  effectually  re- 
instated her  in  public  opinion;  wherever 
the  dominie  went  on  a  message  of  help  or 
kindness  Margaret  went  with  him.  She 
fell  gradually  into  a  quieter  but  still  more 
affectionate  regard — the  aged,  the  sick  and 
the  little  children  clung  to  her  hands,  and 
she  was  comforted. 

Her  life  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  wonder- 
fully narrowed,  but  when  the  tide  is  fairly 
out,  it  begins  to  turn  again.  In  the  fifth  year 
of  her  poverty  there  was  from  various  causes, 
such  an  increase  in  the  value  of  real  estate, 
that  her  rents  were  nearly  doubled,  and  by 
the  end  of  the  seventh  year  she  had  paid 
the  last  shilling  of  her  assumed  debt,  and 
was  again  an  independent  woman. 

It  might  be  two  years  after  this  that  she 
one  day  received  a  letter  that  filled  her 
with  joy  and  amazement.  It  contained  a 
check  for  her  whole  nine  hundred  pounds 
back  again.  "The  bank  had  just  received 
from  Ronald  Sinclair,  of  San  Francisco,  the 
whole  amount  due  it,  with  the  most  satis- 
factory acknowledgment  and  interest."" 


192  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

It  was  a  few  minutes  before  Margaret  could 
take  in  all  the  joy  this  news  promised  her; 
but  when  she  did,  the  calm,  well-regulated 
girl  had  never  been  so  near  committing  ex- 
travagances. 

She  ran  wildly  upstairs  to  the  dominie, 
and,  throwing  herself  at  his  knees,  cried 
out,  amid  tears  and  smiles:  "Father! 
father !  Here  is  your  money !  Here  is  the 
poor's  money  and  the  church's  money! 
God  has  sent  it  back  to  me !  Sent  it  back 
with  such  glad  tidings!" — and  surely  if 
angels  rejoice  with  repenting  sinners,  they 
must  have  felt  that  day  a  far  deeper  joy 
with  the  happy,  justified  girl. 

She  knew  now  that  she  also  would  soon 
hear  from  Ronald,  and  she  was  not  disap- 
pointed. The  very  next  day  the  dominie 
brought  home  the  letter.  Margaret  took  it 
upstairs  to  read  it  upon  her  knees,  while 
the  good  old  man  walked  softly  up  and 
down  his  study  praying  for  her.  Presently 
she  came  to  him  with  a  radiant  face. 

"Is  it  weel  wi'  the  lad,  ma  dawtie?" 

"Yes,  father;  it  is  very  well."  Then 
she  read  him  the  letter. 

Ronald  had  been  in  New  Orleans  and 
had  the  fever;  he  had  been  in  Texas,  and 
spent  four  years  in  fighting  Indians  and 
Mexicans  and  in  herding  cattle.  He  had 
suffered  many  things,  but  had  worked 
night  and  day,  and  always  managed  to 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  193 

grow  a  little  richer  every  year.  Then, 
suddenly,  the  word  "California!"  rung 
through  the  world,  and  he  caught  the  echo 
even  on  the  lonely  southwestern  prairies. 
Through  incredible  hardships  he  had  made 
his  way  thither,  and  a  sudden  and  wonder- 
ful fortune  had  crowned  his  labors,  first  in 
mining  and  afterward  in  speculation  and 
merchandising.  He  said  that  he  was  in- 
deed afraid  to  tell  her  how  rich  he  was  lest 
to  her  Arcadean  views  the  sum  might  ap- 
pear incredible. 

Margaret  let  the  letter  fall  on  her  lap  and 
clasped  her  hands  above  it.  Her  face  was 
beautiful.  If  the  prodigal  son  had  a  sister 
she  must  have  looked  just  as  Margaret 
looked  when  they  brought  in  her  lost 
brother,  in  the  best  robe  and  the  gold  ring. 

The  dominie  was  not  so  satisfied.  A 
good  many  things  in  the  letter  displeased 
him,  but  he  kissed  Margaret  tenderly  and 
went  away  from  her.  "  It  is  a'  /  did  this, 
an'  /  did  that,  an'  /  suffered  you;  there  is 
nae  word  o'  God's  help,  or  o'  what  ither 
folk  had  to  thole.  I'll  no  be  doing  ma  duty 
if  I  dinna  set  his  sin  afore  his  e'en." 

The  old  man  was  little  used  to  writing, 
and  the  effort  was  a  great  one,  but  he 
bravely  made  it,  and  without  delay.  In  a 
few  curt,  idiomatic  sentences  he  told  Ronald 
Margaret's  story  of  suffering  and  wrong  and 
poverty;  her  hard  work  for  daily  bread; 
13 


194  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

her  loss  of  friends,  of  her  good  name  and 
her  lover,  adding:  "It  is  a  puir  success, 
ma  lad,  that  ye  dinna  acknowledge  God  in ; 
an'  let  me  tell  thee,  thy  restitution  is  o'er 
late  for  thy  credit.  I  wad  hae  thought 
better  o'  it  had  thou  made  it  when  it  took 
the  last  plack  i'  thy  pouch.  Out  o'  thy 
great  wealth,  a  few  him 'red  pounds  is  nae 
matter  to  speak  aboot. ' ' 

But  people  did  speak  of  it.  In  spite  of 
our  chronic  abuse  of  human  nature  it  is, 
after  all,  a  kindly  nature,  and  rejoices  in 
good  more  than  in  evil.  The  story  of 
Ronald's  restitution  is  considered  honorable 
to  it,  and  it  was  much  made  of  in  the  daily 
papers.  Margaret's  friends  flocked  round 
her  again,  saying,  "I'm  sorry,  Margaret!" 
as  simply  and  honestly  as  little  children, 
and  the  dominie  did  not  fail  to  give  them 
the  lecture  on  charity  that  Margaret  ne- 
glected. 

Whether  the  Udaller  Thorkald  wrote  to 
his  son  anent  these  transactions,  or  whether 
the  captain  read  in  the  papers  enough  to 
satisfy  him,  he  never  explained;  but  one 
day  he  suddenly  appeared  at  Dr.  Ogilvie's 
and  asked  for  Margaret.  He  had  probably 
good  excuses  for  his  conduct  to  offer;  if 
not,  Margaret  was  quite  ready  to  invent 
for  him — as  she  had  done  for  Ronald — all 
the  noble  qualities  he  lacked.  The  captain 
was  tired  of  military  life,  and  anxious  to 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  195 

return  to  Orkney;  and,  as  his  own  and 
Margaret's  property  was  yearly  increasing 
in  value,  he  foresaw  profitable  employment 
for  his  talents.  He  had  plans  for  intro- 
ducing many  southern  improvements — for 
building  a  fine  modern  house,  growing 
some  of  the  hardier  fruits  and  for  the  con- 
struction of  a  grand  conservatory  for  Mar- 
garet's flowers. 

It  must  be  allowed  that  Captain  Thorkald 
was  a  very  ordinary  lord  for  a  woman  like 
Margaret  Sinclair  to  "love,  honor  and 
obey;"  but  few  men  would  have  been 
worthy  of  her,  and  the  usual  rule  which 
shows  us  the  noblest  women  marrying  men 
manifestly  their  inferiors  is  doubtless  a 
wise  one. 

A  lofty  soul  can  have  no  higher  mission 
than  to  help  upward  one  upon  a  lower 
plane,  and  surely  Captain  Thorkald,  being, 
as  the  dominie  said,  "no  that  bad,"  had  the 
fairest  opportunities  to  grow  to  Margaret's 
stature  in  Margaret's  atmosphere. 

While  these  things  were  occurring,  Ronald 
got  Margaret's  letter.  It  was  full  of  love 
and  praise,  and  had  no  word  of  blame  or 
complaint  in  it.  He  noticed,  indeed,  that 
she  still  signed  her  name  "Sinclair,"  and 
that  she  never  alluded  to  Captain  Thorkald, 
and  the  supposition  that  the  stain  on  his 
character  had  caused  a  rupture  did,  for  a 
moment,  force  itself  upon  his  notice;  but 


196  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

he  put  it  instantly  away  with  the  reflection 
that '  'Thorkald  was  but  a  poor  fellow,  after 
all,  and  quite  unworthy  of  his  sister. ' ' 

The  very  next  mail-day  he  received  the 
dominie's  letter.  He  read  it  once,  and 
could  hardly  take  it  in ;  read  it  again  and 
again,  until  his  lips  blanched,  and  his 
whole  countenance  changed.  In  that  mo- 
ment he  saw  Ronald  Sinclair  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life.  Without  a  word,  he  left 
his  business,  went  to  his  house  and  locked 
himself  in  his  own  room. 

Then  Margaret's  silent  money  began  to 
speak.  In  low  upbraidings  it  showed  him 
the  lonely  girl  in  that  desolate  land  trying 
to  make  her  own  bread,  deserted  of  lover 
and  friends,  robbed  of  her  property  and 
good  name,  silently  suffering  every  ex- 
tremity, never  reproaching  him  once,  not 
even  thinking  it  necessary  to  tell  him  of 
her  sufferings,  or  to  count  their  cost  unto 
him. 

What  is  this  bitterness  we  call  remorse? 
This  agony  of  the  soul  in  all  its  senses? 
This  sudden  flood  of  intolerable  light  in  the 
dark  places  of  our  hearts?  This  truth- 
telling  voice  which  leaves  us  without  a 
particle  of  our  self-complacency?  For 
many  days  Ronald  could  find  no  words  to 
speak  but  these,  ' '  O,  wretched  man  that  I 
am!" 

But   at   length   the   Comforter   came    as 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  197 

swiftly  and  surely  and  mysteriously  as  the 
accuser  had  come,  and  once  more  that 
miracle  of  grace  was  renewed — ' '  that  day 
Jesus  was  guest  in  the  house  of  one  who 
was  a  sinner. ' ' 

Margaret's  " silent  money"  now  found  a 
thousand  tongues.  It  spoke  in  many  a 
little  feeble  church  that  Ronald  Sinclair 
held  in  his  arms  until  it  was  strong  enough 
to  stand  alone.  It  spoke  in  schools  and 
colleges  and  hospitals,  in  many  a  sorrowful 
home  and  to  many  a  lonely,  struggling 
heart — and  at  this  very  day  it  has  echoes 
that  reach  from  the  far  West  to  the  lonely 
islands  beyond  the  stormy  Pentland  Firth, 
and  the  sea-shattering  precipices  of  Dun- 
cansbay  Head. 

It  is  not  improbable  that  some  of  my 
readers  may  take  a  summer's  trip  to  the 
Orkney  Islands ;  let  me  ask  them  to  wait 
at  Thurso — the  old  town  of  Thor — for  a 
handsome  little  steamer  that  leaves  there 
three  times  a  week  for  Kirkwall.  It  is  the 
sole  property  of  Captain  Geordie  Twatt, 
was  a  gift  from  an  old  friend  in  California, 
and  is  called  ' '  The  Margaret  Sinclair. ' ' 


198  Winter  Evening  Tales. 


JUST  WHAT  HE  DESERVED. 

There  is  not  in  its  own  way  a  more  dis- 
tinctive and  interesting  bit  of  Scotland  than 
the  bleak  Lothian  country,  with  its  wide 
views,  its  brown  ploughed  fields,  and  its 
dense  swaying  plantations  of  fir.  The 
Lammermoor  Hills  and  the  Pentlands  and 
the  veils  of  smoke  that  lie  about  Edinburgh 
are  on  its  horizon,  and  within  that  circle 
all  the  large  quietude  of  open  grain  fields, 
wide  turnip  lands,  where  sheep  feed,  and 
far-stretching  pastures  where  the  red  and 
white  cows  ruminate.  The  patient  pro- 
cesses of  nature  breed  patient  minds;  the 
gray  cold  climate  can  be  read  in  the  faces 
of  the  people,  and  in  their  hearts  the 
seasons  take  root  and  grow;  so  that  they 
have  a  grave  character,  passive,  )'et  endur- 
ing; strong  to  feel  and  strong  to  act  when 
the  time  is  full  ready  for  action. 

Of  these  natural  peculiarities  Jean  An- 
derson had  her  share.  She  was  a  Lothian 
lassie  of  many  generations,  usually  un- 
demonstrative, but  with  large  possibilities 
of  storm  beneath  her  placid  face  and  gentle 
manner.  Her  father  was  the  minister  of 
Lambrig  and  the  manse  stood  in  a  very 
sequestered  corner  of  the  big  parish,  facing 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  199 

the  bleak  east  winds,  and  the  salt  showers 
of  the  German  ocean.  It  was  sheltered  by 
dark  fir  woods  on  three  sides,  and  in  front 
a  little  walled-in  garden  separated  it  from 
the  long,  dreary,  straight  line  of  turnpike 
road.  But  Jean  had  no  knowledge  of  any 
fairer  land ;  she  had  read  of  flowery  pastures 
and  rose  gardens  and  vineyards,  but  these 
places  were  to  her  only  in  books,  while  the 
fields  and  fells  that  filled  her  eyes  were  her 
home,  and  she  loved  them. 

She  loved  them  all  the  more  because  the 
man  she  loved  was  going  to  leave  them,  and 
if  Gavin  Burns  did  well,  and  was  faithful 
to  her,  then  it  was  like  to  be  that  she  also 
would  go  far  away  from  the  blue  Lammer- 
muirs,  and  the  wide  still  spaces  of  the 
L,othians.  She  stood  at  the  open  door  of 
the  manse  with  her  lover  thinking  of  these 
things,  but  with  no  real  sense  of  what  pain 
or  deprivation  the  thought  included.  She 
was  tall  and  finely  formed,  a  blooming  girl, 
with  warmly -colored  cheeks,  a  mouth  rather 
large  and  a  great  deal  of  wavy  brown  hair. 
But  the  best  of  all  her  beauty  was  the  soul 
in  her  face;  its  vitality,  its  vivacity  and 
immediate  response. 

However,  the  time  of  love  had  come  to 
her,  and  though  her  love  had  grown  as 
naturally  as  a  sapling  in  a  wood,  who  could 
tell  what  changes  it  would  make?  For 
Gavin  Burns  had  been  educated  in  the 


2oo  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

minister's  house  and  Jean  and  he  had 
studied  and  fished  and  rambled  together 
all  through  the  years  in  which  Jean  had 
grown  from  childhood  into  womanhood. 
Now  Gavin  was  going  to  New  York  to 
make  his  fortune.  They  stepped  through 
the  garden  and  into  the  long  dim  road, 
walking  slowly  in  the  calm  night,  with 
thoughtful  faces  and  clasped  hands. 
There  was  at  this  last  hour  little  left 
to  say.  Kvery  promise  known  to  Love 
had  been  given ;  they  had  exchanged  Bibles 
and  broken  a  piece  of  silver  and  vowed  an 
eternal  fidelity.  So,  in  the  cold  sunset  they 
\valked  silently  by  the  river  that  was  run- 
ning in  flood  like  their  own  hearts.  At  the 
little  stone  bridge  they  stopped,  and  lean- 
ing over  the  parapet  watched  the  drumly 
water  rushing  below ;  and  there  Jean  reit- 
erated her  promise  to  be  Gavin's  wife  as 
soon  as  he  was  able  to  make  a  home  for  her. 

"And  I  am  not  proud,  Gavin,"  she  said; 
* '  a  little  house,  if  it  is  filled  with  love,  will 
make  me  happy  beyond  all. ' ' 

They  were  both  too  hopeful  and  trustful 
and  too  habitually  calm  to  weep  or  make 
much  visible  lament  over  their  parting;  and 
yet  when  Gavin  vanished  into  the  dark  of 
the  lonely  road,  Jean  shut  the  heavy  house 
door  very  slowly.  She  felt  as  if  she  was 
shutting  part  of  herself  out  of  the  old  home 
forever,  and  she  was  shocked  by  this  first 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  201 

breaking  of  the  continuity  of  life;  this 
sharp  cutting  of  regular  events  asunder. 
Gavin's  letters  were  at  first  frequent  and 
encouraging,  but  as  the  months  went  by 
he  wrote  more  and  more  seldom.  He  said 
"he  was  kept  so  busy;  he  was  making 
himself  indispensable,  and  could  not  afford 
to  be  less  busy.  He  was  weary  to  death  on 
the  Saturday  nights,  and  he  could  not  bring 
his  conscience  to  write  anent  his  own  per- 
sonal and  earthly  happiness  on  the  Sabbath 
day;  but  he  was  sure  Jean  trusted  in  him, 
whether  he  wrote  or  not;  and  they  were 
past  being  bairns,  always  telling  each  other 
the  love  they  were  both  so  sure  of. ' ' 

Late  in  the  autumn  the  minister  died  of 
typhoid  fever,  and  Jean,  heartbroken  and 
physically  worn  out,  was  compelled  to  face 
for  her  mother  and  herself,  a  complete 
change  of  life.  It  had  never  seemed  to 
these  two  women  that  anything  could 
happen  to  the  father  and  head  of  the 
family ;  in  their  loving  hearts  he  had  been 
immortal,  and  though  the  disease  had  run 
its  tedious  course  before  their  eyes,  his 
death  at  the  last  was  a  shock  that  shook 
their  lives  and  their  home  to  the  very 
centre.  A  new  minister  was  the  first  in- 
evitable change,  and  then  a  removal  from 
the  comfortable  manse  to  a  little  cottage  in 
the  village  of  Lambrig. 

While  this  sad  removal  was  in  progress 


202  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

they  had  felt  the  sorrow  of  it,  all  that  they 
could  bear;  and  neither  had  dared  to  look 
into  the  future  or  to  speculate  as  to  its 
necessities.  Jean  in  her  heart  expected 
Gavin  would  at  once  send  for  them  to  come 
to  America.  He  had  a  fair  salary,  and 
the  sale  of  their  furniture  would  defray 
their  traveling  expenses. 

She  was  indeed  so  sure  of  this  journey, 
that  she  did  not  regard  the  cottage  as  more 
than  a  temporary  shelter  during  the  ap- 
proaching winter.  In  the  spring,  no  doubt, 
Gavin  would  have  a  little  home  ready,  and 
they  would  cross  the  ocean  to  it.  The 
mother  had  the  same  thought.  As  they  sat 
on  their  new  hearthstone,  lonely  and  poor, 
they  talked  of  this  event,  and  if  any  doubts 
lurked  unconsciously  below  their  love  and 
trust  they  talked  them  away,  while  they 
waited  for  Gavin's  answer  to  the  sorrowful 
letter  Jean  had  sent  him  on  the  night  of  her 
father's  burial. 

It  was  longer  in  coming  than  they  ex- 
pected. For  a  week  they  saw  the  postman 
pass  their  door  with  an  indifference  that 
seemed  cruel ;  for  a  week  Jean  made  new 
excuses  and  tried  to  hold  up  her  mother's 
heart,  while  her  own  was  sinking  lower 
and  lower.  Then  one  morning  the  looked- 
for  answer  came.  Jean  fled  to  a  room  apart 
to  read  it  alone ;  Mrs.  Anderson  sat  down 
and  waited,  with  dropped  eyes  and  hands 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  203 

tightly  clasped.  She  knew,  before  Jean 
said  a  word,  that  the  letter  had  disappointed 
her.  She  had  remained  alone  too  long.  If 
all  had  been  as  they  hoped  the  mother  was 
certain  Jean  would  not  have  deferred  the 
good  tidings  a  moment.  But  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  had  passed  before  Jean  came  to  her 
side,  and  then  when  she  lifted  her  eyes  she 
saw  that  her  daughter  had  been  weeping. 

"It  is  a  disappointment,  Jean,  I  see, '* 
she  said  sadly.  ' '  Never  mind,  dearie. ' ' 

' '  Yes,  mother ;  Gavin  has  failed  us. ' ' 

"We  have  been  two  foolish  women,  Jean. 
Oh,  my  dear  lassie,  we  should  have  lippened 
to  God,  and  He  would  not  have  disappointed 
us !  What  does  Gavin  Burns  say  ?' ' 

"It  is  what  he  does  not  say,  that  hurts 
me,  mother.  I  may  as  well  tell  you  the 
whole  truth.  When  he  heard  how  ill  father 
was,  he  wrote  to  me,  as  if  he  had  foreseen 
what  was  to  happen.  He  said,  'there  will 
be  a  new  minister  and  a  break-up  of  the  old 
home,  and  you  must  come  at  once  to  your 
new  home  here.  I  am  the  one  to  care  for 
you  when  your  father  is  gone  away;  and 
what  does  it  matter  under  what  sun  or  sky 
if  we  are  but  together?'  So,  then,  mother, 
when  the  worst  had  come  to  us  I  wrote 
with  a  free  heart  to  Gavin.  I  said,  '  I  will 
come  to  you  gladly,  Gavin,  but  you  know 
well  that  my  mother  is  very  dear  to  me, 
and  where  I  am  there  she  also  must  be. r 


204  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

And  he  says,  in  this  letter,  that  it  is  me  he 
is  wanting,  and  that  you  have  a  brother  in 
Glasgow  that  is  unmarried  and  who  will  be 
willing,  no  doubt,  to  have  you  keep  his 
house  for  him.  There  is  a  wale  of  fine 
words  about  it,  mother,  but  they  come  to 
just  this,  and  no  more — Gavin  is  willing 
to  care  for  me  but  not  for  3^ou,  and  I  will 
not  trust  myself  with  a  man  that  cannot 
love  you  for  my  sake.  We  will  stay  to- 
gether, mammy  darling!  Whatever  comes 
or  goes  we  will  stay  together.  The  man 
isna  born  that  can  part  us  two!" 

"He  is  your  lover,  Jean.  A  girl  must 
stick  to  her  lover. ' ' 

"You  are  my  mother.  I  am  bone  of 
your  bone,  and  flesh  of  j^our  flesh  and  love 
of  your  love.  May  God  forsake  me  when  I 
forsake  you ! ' ' 

She  had  thrown  herself  at  her  mother's 
knees  and  was  clasping  and  kissing  the  sad 
face  so  dear  to  her,  as  she  fervently  uttered 
the  last  words.  And  the  mother  was  pro- 
foundly touched  by  her  child's  devotion. 
She  drew  her  close  to  her  heart,  and  said 
firmly : 

"No!  No,  my  dearie!  What  could  we 
two  do  for  ourselves?  And  I'm  loth  to  part 
you  and  Gavin.  I  simply  cannot  take  the 
sacrifice  you  so  lovingly  offer  me.  I  will 
write  to  my  brother  David.  Gavin  isna 
far  wrong  there;  David  is  a  very  close 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  205 

man,  but  he  willna  see  his  sister  suffer, 
there  is  no  fear  of  that. ' ' 

"It  is  Jean  that  will  not  see  you  suffer." 

' '  But  the  bite  and  the  sup,  Jean  ?  How 
are  we  to  get  them?" 

"I  can  make  my  own  dresses  and  cloaks, 
so  then  I  can  make  dresses  and  cloaks  for 
other  people.  I  shall  send  out  a  card  to 
the  ladies  near-by  and  put  an  advertisement 
in  the  Haddington  newspaper,  and  God  can 
make  my  needle  sharp  enough  for  the 
battle.  Don't  cry,  mother!  Oh,  darling, 
don't  cry!  We  have  God  and  each  other, 
and  none  can  call  us  desolate. ' ' 

"But  you  will  break  your  heart,  Jean. 
You  canna  help  it.  And  I  canna  take  your 
love  and  happiness  to  brighten  my  old  age. 
It  isna  right.  I'll  not  do  it.  You  must  go 
to  Gavin.  I  will  go  to  my  brother 
David." 

"I  will  not  break  my  heart,  mother.  I 
will  not  shed  a  tear  for  the  false,  mean  lad, 
that  you  were  so  kind  to  for  fourteen  years, 
when  there  was  no  one  else  to  love  him. 
Aye,  I  know  he  paid  for  his  board  and 
schooling,  but  he  never  could  pay  for  the 
mother-love  you  gave  him,  just  because  he 
was  motherless.  And  who  has  more  right 
to  have  their  life  brightened  by  my  love 
than  you  have?  Beside,  it  is  my  happiness 
to  brighten  it,  and  so,  what  will  you  say 
against  it?  And  I  will  not  go  to  Gavin. 


206  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Not  one  step.  If  he  wants  me  now,  he  will 
come  for  me,  and  for  you,  too.  This  is 
sure  as  death !  Oh,  mammy !  Mammy,  dar- 
ling, a  false  lad  shall  not  part  us !  Never  I 
Never!  Never!" 

"Jean !  Jean !  What  will  I  say  at  all? " 
"What  would  my  father  say,  if  he  was 
here  this  minute?  He  would  say,  'you 
are  right,  Jean !  And  God  bless  you,  Jean ! 
And  you  may  be  sure  that  it  is  all  for  the 
best,  Jean !  So  take  the  right  road  with  a 
glad  heart,  Jean!'  That  is  what  father 
would  say.  And  I  will  never  do  anything 
to  prevent  me  looking  him  straight  in  the 
face  when  we  meet  again.  Kven  in  heaven 
I  shall  want  him  to  smile  into  my  eyes  and 
say,  'Well  done,  Jean!'  " 


CHAPTER  II. 

Jean's  plans  for  the  future  were  humble 
and  reasonable  enough  to  insure  them  some 
measure  of  success,  and  the  dreaded  winter 
passed  not  uncomfortably  away.  Then  in 
the  summer  Uncle  David  Nicoll  came  to 
Lambrig  and  boarded  with  his  sister,  pay- 
ing a  pound  a  week,  and  giving  her,  on  his 
departure,  a  five-pound  note  to  help  the  next 
winter's  expenses.  This  order  of  things 
went  on  without  change  or  intermission  for 
five  years,  and  the  little  cottage  gradually 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  207 

gathered  in  its  clean,  sweet  rooms,  many 
articles  of  simple  use  and  beauty.  Mrs. 
Anderson  took  entire  charge  of  the  house- 
keeping. Jean's  needle  flew  swiftly  from 
morning  to  night,  and  though  the  girl  had 
her  share  of  the  humiliations  and  annoy- 
ances incident  to  her  position,  these  did  not 
interfere  with  the  cheerful  affection  and  mu- 
tual help  which  brightened  their  lonely  life. 

She  heard  nothing  from  Gavin.  After 
some  painful  correspondence,  in  which 
neither  would  retract  a  step  from  the  stand 
they  had  taken,  Gavin  ceased  writing,  and 
Jean  ceased  expecting,  though  before  this 
calm  was  reached  she  had  many  a  bitter 
hour  the  mother  never  suspected.  But 
such  hours  were  to  Jean's  soul  what  the 
farmers  call  "growing  weather;"  in  them 
much  rich  thought  and  feeling  sprang  up 
insensibly;  her  nature  ripened  and  mel- 
lowed and  she  became  a  far  lovelier  woman 
than  her  twentieth  year  had  promised. 

One  gray  February  afternoon,  when  the 
rain  was  falling  steadily,  Jean  felt  unus- 
ually depressed  and  weary.  An  apprehen- 
sion of  some  unhappiness  made  her  sad, 
and  she  could  not  sew  for  the  tears  that 
would  dim  her  eyes.  Suddenly  the  door 
opened  and  Gavin's  sister  Mary  entered. 
Jean  did  not  know  her  very  well,  and  she 
did  not  like  her  at  all,  and  she  wondered 
what  she  had  come  to  tell  her. 


208  Winter  Evening  7a/es. 

"I  am  going  to  New  York  on  Saturday, 
Jean,"  she  said,  "and  I  thought  Gavin 
would  like  to  know  how  you  looked  and 
felt  these  days. ' ' 

Jean  flushed  indignantly.  "You  can  see 
how  I  look  easy  enough,  Mary  Burns,"  she 
answered;  "but  as  to  how  I  feel,  that  is  a 
thing  I  keep  to  myself  these  days. ' ' 

"Gavin  has  furnished  a  pretty  house  at 
the  long  last,  and  I  am  to  be  the  mistress 
of  it.  You  will  have  heard,  doubtless,  that 
the  school  where  I  taught  so  long  has  been 
broken  up,  and  so  I  was  on  the  world,  as 
one  may  say,  and  Gavin  could  not  bear 
that.  He  is  a  good  man,  is  Gavin,  and 
I'm  thinking  I  shall  have  a  happy  time 
with  him  in  America." 

"I  hope  you  will,  Mary.  Give  him  a 
kind  wish  from  me;  and  I  will  bid  you 
'good  bye'  now,  if  you  please,  seeing  that 
I  have  more  sewing  to  do  to-night  than  I 
can  well  manage. ' ' 

This  event  wounded  Jean  sorely.  She 
felt  sure  Mary  had  only  called  for  an  un- 
kind purpose,  and  that  she  would  cruelly 
misrepresent  her  appearance  and  condition 
to  Gavin.  And  no  woman  likes  even  a  lost 
lover  to  think  scornfully  of  her.  But  she 
brought  her  sewing  beside  her  mother  and 
talked  the  affair  over  with  her,  and  so,  at 
the  end  of  the  evening,  went  to  bed  re- 
signed, and  even  cheerful.  Never  had  they 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          209 

spent  a  more  confidential,  loving  night  to- 
gether, and  this  fact  was  destined  to  be  a 
comfort  to  Jean  during  all  the  rest  of  her 
life.  For  in  the  morning  she  noticed  a 
singular  look  on  her  mother's  face  and  at 
noon  she  found  her  in  her  chair  fast  in  that 
sleep  which  knows  no  wakening  in  this 
world. 

It  was  a  blow  which  put  all  other  con- 
siderations far  out  of  Jean's  mind.  She 
mourned  with  a  passionate  sorrow  her  loss, 
and  though  Uncle  David  came  at  once  to 
assist  her  in  the  necessary  arrangements, 
she  suffered  no  hand  but  her  own  to  do  the 
last  kind  offices  for  her  dear  dead.  And 
oh !  how  empty  and  lonely  was  now  the 
little  cottage,  while  the  swift  return  to  all 
the  ordinary  duties  of  life  seemed  such  a 
cruel  effacement.  Uncle  David  watched 
her  silently,  but  on  the  evening  of  the 
third  day  after  the  funeral  he  said,  kindly : 

"Dry  your  eyes,  Jean.  There  is  nae- 
thing  to  weep  for.  Your  mother  is  far 
beyond  tears. ' ' 

"I  cannot  bear  to  forget  her  a  minute, 
uncle,  yet  folks  go  and  come  and  never 
name  her;  and  it  is  not  a  week  since  she 
had  a  word  and  a  smile  for  everybody." 

'  'Death  is  forgetfulness,  Jean  ; 

'one  lonely  way 
We  go:  and  is  she  gone? 

Is  all  our  best  friends  say. '  ' ' 


2io  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

You  must  come  home  with  me  now,  Jean. 
I  canna  be  what  your  mother  has  been  to 
you,  but  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  for  you, 
lassie.  Sell  these  bit  sticks  o'  furniture 
and  shut  the  door  on  the  empty  house  and 
begin  a  new  life.  You've  had  sorrow  about 
a  lad;  let  him  go.  All  o'  the  past  worth 
your  keeping  you  can  save  in  your  mem- 
ory." 

' 'I  will  be  glad  to  go  with  }TOU,  uncle. 
I  shall  be  no  charge  on  you.  I  can  find  my 
own  bread  if  you  will  just  love  me  a  little." 

"I'm  no  that  poor,  Jean.  You  are  wel- 
come to  share  my  loaf.  Put  that  weary 
thimble  and  needle  awa' ;  I'll  no  see  you 
take  another  stitch. ' ' 

So  Jean  followed  her  uncle's  advice  and 
went  back  with  him  to  Glasgow.  He  had 
never  said  a  word  about  his  home,  and 
Jean  knew  not  what  she  expected — cer- 
tainly nothing  more  than  a  small  floor  in 
some  of  the  least  expensive  streets  of  the 
great  city.  It  was  dark  when  they  reached 
Glasgow,  but  Jean  was  sensible  of  a  great 
change  in  her  uncle's  manner  as  soon  as 
they  left  the  railway.  He  made  an  im- 
perative motion  and  a  carriage  instantly 
answered  it ;  and  they  were  swiftly  driven 
to  a  large  dwelling  in  one  of  the  finest 
crescents  of  the  West  end.  He  led  her  into 
a  handsome  parlor  and  called  a  servant, 
and  bid  her  "show  Miss  Anderson  her 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  211 

rooms;"  and  thus,  without  a  word  of  prepar- 
ation, Jean  found  herself  surrounded  by 
undreamed  of  luxury. 

Nothing  was  ever  definitely  explained  to 
her,  but  she  gradually  learned  to  under- 
stand the  strange  old  man  who  assumed  the 
guardianship  of  her  life.  His  great  wealth 
was  evident,  and  it  was  not  long  ere  she 
discovered  that  it  was  largely  spent  in  two 
directions — scientific  discovery  and  the 
Temperance  Crusade.  Men  whose  lives 
were  devoted  to  chemistry  or  to  electrical 
investigations,  or  passionate  apostles  of 
total  abstinence  from  intoxicants  were  daily 
at  his  table;  and  Jean  could  not  help  be- 
coming an  enthusiastic  partisan  on  such 
matters.  One  of  the  savants,  a  certain 
Professor  Sharp,  fell  deeply  in  love  with 
her ;  and  she  felt  it  difficult  to  escape  the 
influence  of  his  wooing,  which  had  all  the 
persistent  patience  of  a  man  accustomed 
4 'to  seek  till  he  found,  and  so  not  lose  his 
labor. ' '  • 

Her  life  was  now  very  happy.  Cautious 
in  giving  his  love,  David  Nicoll  gave  it 
freely  as  soon  as  he  had  resolved  to  adopt 
his  niece.  Nor  did  he  ever  regret  the  gift. 
"Jean  entered  my  house  and  she  made  it  a 
home, ' '  he  said  to  his  friends.  No  words 
could  have  better  explained  the  position. 
In  the  winter  they  entertained  with  a  noble 
hospitality ;  in  the  summer  they  sailed  far 


212  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

north  to  the  mystical  isles  of  the  Western 
seas ;  to  Orkney  and  Zetland  and  once  even 
as  far  as  the  North  Cape  by  the  light  of  the 
midnight  sun.  So  the  time  passed  wonder- 
fully away,  until  Jean  was  thirty-two  years 
old.  The  simple,  unlettered  girl  had  then 
become  a  woman  of  great  culture  and  of 
perfect  physical  charm.  Wise  in  many 
ways,  she  yet  kept  her  loving  heart,  and  her 
uncle  delighted  in  her.  ' '  You  have  made 
my  auld  age  parfectly  happy,  Jean,"  he 
said  to  her  on  the  last  solemn  night  of  his 
life;  "and  I  thank  God  for  the  gift  o'  your 
honest  love !  Now  that  I  am  going  the  way 
of  all  flesh,  I  have  gi'en  you  every  bawbee 
I  have.  I  have  put  no  restrictions  on  you, 
and  I  have  left  nae  dead  wishes  behind  me. 
You  will  do  as  you  like  wi'  the  land  and 
the  siller,  and  you  will  do  right  in  a' 
things,  I  ken  that,  Jean.  If  it  should  come 
into  your  heart  to  tak'  the  love  Professor 
Sharp  offers  you,  I'll  be  pleased,  for  he'll 
never  spend  a  shilling  that  willna  be  weel 
spent ;  and  he  is  a  clever  man,  and  a  good 
man  and  he  loves  you.  But  it  is  a'  in  your 
ain  will;  do  as  you  like,  anent  either  this 
or  that. ' ' 

This  was  the  fourth  great  change  in 
Jean's  life.  Gavin's  going  away  had  opened 
the  doors  of  her  destiny;  her  father's  death 
had  sent  her  to  the  school  of  self-reliant 
poverty;  her  mother's  death  given  her  a 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          213 

home  of  love  and  luxury,  and  now  her  uncle 
put  her  in  a  position  of  vast,  untrammeled 
responsibility.  But  if  love  is  the  joy  of 
life,  this  was  not  the  end;  the  crowning 
change  was  yet  to  come;  and  now,  with 
both  her  hands  full,  her  heart  involuntarily 
turned  to  her  first  lover. 

About  this  time,  also,  Gavin  was  led  to 
remember  Jean.  His  sister  Mary  was  going 
to  marry,  and  the  circumstance  annoyed 
him.  "I'll  have  to  store  my  furniture  and 
pay  for  the  care  of  it;  or  I'll  have  to  sell  it 
at  a  loss;  or  I'll  have  to  hire  a  servant  lass, 
and  be  robbed  on  the  right  hand  and  the 
left, ' '  he  said  fretfully.  ' '  It  was  not  in  the 
bargain  that  you  should  marry,  and  it  is 
very  bad  behavior  in  you,  Mary." 

"Well,  Gavin,  get  married  j^ourself,  and 
the  furnishing  will  not  be  wasted,"  an- 
swered Mary.  <(  There  is  Annie  Riley,  just 
dying  for  the  love  of  you,  and  no  brighter, 
smarter  girl  in  New  York  city. ' ' 

"She  isn't  in  love  with  me;  she  is  tired 
of  the  Remington  all  day ;  and  if  I  wanted 
a  wife,  there  is  some  one  better  than  Annie 
Riley." 

"Jean  Anderson?" 

"Ay." 

"Send  for  her  picture,  and  you  will  see 
what  a  plain,  dowdy  old  maid  she  is.  She 
is  not  for  the  like  of  you,  Gavin — a  bit 
country  dressmaker,  poor,  and  past  liking. ' ' 


214  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Gavin  said  no  more,  but  that  night  he 
wrote  Jean  Anderson  the  following  letter : 
"Dear  Jean.  I  wish  you  would  send  me  a 
picture  of  yourself.  If  you  will  not  write 
me  a  word,  you  might  let  me  have  your 
face  to  look  at.  Mary  is  getting  herself 
married,  and  I  will  be  alone  in  a  few  days. ' ' 
That  is  enough,  he  thought;  "she  w7ill  un- 
derstand that  there  is  a  chance  for  her  yet, 
if  she  is  as  bonnie  as  in  the  old  days.  Mary 
is  not  to  be  trusted.  She  never  liked  Jean. 
I'll  see  for  myself." 

Jean  got  this  letter  one  warm  day  in 
spring,  and  she  "understood"  it  as  clearly 
as  Gavin  intended  her  to.  For  a  long  time 
she  sat  thinking  it  over,  then  she  went  to  a 
drawer  for  a  photo,  taken  just  before  her 
mother's  death.  It  showed  her  face  with- 
out any  favor,  without  even  justice,  and  the 
plain  merino  gown,  which  was  then  her 
best.  And  with  this  picture  she  wrote — 
"Dear  Gavin.  The  enclosed  was  taken 
five  years  since,  and  there  have  been  changes 
since." 

She  did  not  say  what  the  changes  were, 
but  Gavin  was  sure  they  were  unfavorable. 
He  gazed  at  the  sad,  thoughtful  face,  the 
poor  plain  dress,  and  he  was  disappointed. 
A  girl  like  that  would  do  his  house  no 
honor;  he  would  not  care  to  introduce  her 
to  his  fellow  clerks ;  they  would  not  envy 
him  a  bit.  Annie  Riley  was  far  better 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  215 

looking,  and  far  more  stylish.  He  decided 
in  favor  of  Annie  Riley. 

Jean  was  not  astonished  when  no  answer 
came.  She  had  anticipated  her  failure  to 
please  her  old  lover;  but  she  smiled  a  little 
sadly  at  his  failure.  Then  there  came  into 
her  mind  a  suspicion  of  Mary,  an  uncer- 
tainty, a  lingering  hope  that  some  circum- 
stance, not  to  be  guessed  at  from  a  distance, 
was  to  blame  for  Gavin's  silence  and  utter 
want  of  response.  It  was  midsummer,  she 
wanted  a  breath  of  the  ocean ;  why  should 
she  not  go  to  New  York  and  quietly  see 
how  things  were  for  herself?  The  idea 
took  possession  of  her,  and  she  carried  it 
out. 

She  knew  the  name  of  the  large  dry 
goods  firm  that  Gavin  served,  and  the 
morning  after  her  arrival  in  New  York  she 
strolled  into  it  for  a  pair  of  gloves.  As 
they  were  being  fitted  on  she  heard  Gavin 
speak,  and  moving  her  position  slightly, 
she  saw  him  leaning  against  a  pile  of  sum- 
mer blankets.  He  was  talking  to  one  of 
his  fellows,  and  evidently  telling  a  funny 
story,  at  which  both  giggled  and  snickered, 
ere  they  walked  their  separate  ways.  Being 
midsummer  the  store  was  nearly  empty,  and 
Jean,  by  varying  her  purchases,  easily  kept 
Gavin  in  sight.  She  never  for  one  moment 
found  the  sight  a  pleasant  one.  Gavin  had 
deteriorated  in  every  way.  He  was  no  longer 


2i6  Winter  Evening  7^ales. 

handsome;  the  veil  of  youth  had  fallen  from 
him,  and  his  face,  his  hands,  his  figure, 
his  slouching  walk,  his  querulous  authorita- 
tive voice,  all  revealed  a  man  whom  Jean 
repelled  at  every  point.  Years  had  not  re- 
fined, they  had  vulgarized  him.  His  cloth- 
ing careless  and  not  quite  fresh,  offended 
her  taste;  in  fact,  his  whole  appearance 
was  of  that  shabby  genteel  character,  which 
is  far  more  mean  and  plebeian  than  can  be 
given  by  undisguised  working  apparel.  As 
Jean  was  taking  note  of  these  things  a  girl, 
with  a  flushed,  angry  face,  spoke  to  him. 
She  was  evidently  making  a  complaint,  and 
Gavin  answered  her  in  a  manner  which 
made  Jean  burn  from  head  to  feet.  The 
disillusion  was  complete;  she  never  looked 
at  him  again,  and  he  never  knew  she  had 
looked  at  him  at  all. 

But  after  Mary's  marriage  he  heard  news 
which  startled  him.  Mary,  under  her  new 
name,  wrote  to  an  acquaintance  in  Lam- 
brig,  and  this  acquaintance  in  reply  said, 
' '  You  will  have  heard  that  Jean  Anderson 
was  left  a  great  fortune  by  her  uncle,  David 
Nicoll.  She  is  building  a  home  near  Lam- 
brig  that  is  finer  than  Maxwell  Castle ;  and 
Lord  Maxwell  has  rented  the  castle  to  her 
until  her  new  home  is  finished.  You 
wouldn't  ken  the  looks  of  her  now,  she  is 
that  handsome,  but  weel-a-way,  fine  feathers 
aye  make  fine  birds!" 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  217 

Gavin  fairly  trembled  when  he  heard  this 
news,  and  as  he  had  been  with  the  firm 
eleven  years  and  never  asked  a  favor,  he 
resolved  to  tell  them  he  had  important  busi- 
ness in  Scotland,  and  ask  for  a  month's 
holiday  to  attend  to  it.  If  he  was  on  the 
ground  he  never  doubted  his  personal  in- 
fluence. ' '  Jean  was  aye  wax  in  my  fingers, ' ' 
he  said  to  Mary. 

"There  is  Annie  Riley, "  answered 
Mary. 

"She  will  have  to  give  me  up.  I'll  not 
marry  her.  I  am  going  to  marry  Jean,  and 
settle  myself  in  Scotland. ' ' 

"Annie  is  not  the  girl  to  be  thrown  off 
that  kind  of  way,  Gavin.  You  have  pro- 
mised to  marry  her. ' ' 

' '  I  shall  marry  Jean  Anderson,  and  then 
what  will  Annie  do  about  it,  I  would  like 
to  know?" 

"I  think  you  will  find  out." 

In  the  fall  he  obtained  permission  to  go 
to  Scotland  for  a  month,  and  he  hastened 
to  Lambrig  as  fast  as  steam  could  carry 
him.  He  intended  no  secret  visit ;  he  had 
made  every  preparation  to  fill  his  old 
townsmen  with  admiration  and  envy.  But 
things  had  changed,  even  in  Lambrig. 
There  was  a  new  innkeeper,  who  could 
answer  none  of  his  questions,  and  who  did 
not  remember  Minister  Anderson  and  his 
daughter,  Jean.  He  began  to  fear  he  had 


218  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

come  on  a  fool's  errand,  and  after  a  leis- 
urely, late  breakfast,  he  strolled  out  to  make 
his  own  investigations. 

There  was  certainly  a  building  on  a  mag- 
nificent scale  going  up  on  a  neighboring 
hill,  and  he  walked  toward  it.  When  half 
way  there  a  finely-appointed  carriage  passed 
him  swiftly,  but  not  too  swiftly  for  him  to 
see  that  Jean  and  a  very  handsome  man 
were  its  occupants.  ' '  It  will  be  her  lawyer 
or  architect, ' '  he  thought ;  and  he  walked 
rapidly  onward,  pleased  with  himself  for 
having  put  on  his  very  best  walking  suit. 
There  were  many  workmen  on  the  build- 
ing, and  he  fell  into  conversation  with  a 
man  who  was  mixing  mortar;  but  all  the 
time  he  was  watching  Jean  and  her  escort 
stepping  about  the  great  uncovered  spaces 
of  the  new  dwelling-house  with  such  an  air 
of  mutual  trust  and  happiness  that  it 
angered  him. 

"Who  is  the  lady?"  he  asked  at  length; 
"she  seems  to  have  business  here." 

"What  for  no?  The  house  is  her  ain. 
She  is  Mistress  Sharp,  and  that  is  the  pro- 
fessor with  her.  He  is  a  great  gun  in  the 
Glasgow  University." 

"They  are  married,  then?" 

"Ay,  they  are  married.  What  are  you 
saying  at  all  ?  They  were  married  a  month 
syne,  and  they  are  as  happy  as  robins  in 
spring,  I'm  thinking.  I'll  drink  their 


Winter  Rvening  Tales.  219 

health,  sir,  if  you'll  gie  me  the  bit  o' 
siller. ' ' 

Gavin  gave  the  silver  and  turned  away 
dazed  and  sick  at  heart.  His  business  in 
Scotland  was  over.  The  quiet  Lothian 
country  sickened  him;  he  turned  his  face 
to  London,  and  very  soon  went  back  to 
New  York.  He  had  lost  Jean,  and  he  had 
lost  Jean's  fortune;  and  there  were  no 
words  to  express  his  chagrin  and  disap- 
pointment. His  sister  felt  the  first  weight 
of  it.  He  blamed  her  entirely.  She  had 
lied  to  him  about  Jean's  beauty.  He  be- 
lieved he  would  have  liked  the  photo  but 
for  Mary.  And  all  for  Annie  Riley!  He 
hated  Annie  Riley !  He  was  resolved  never 
to  marry  her,  and  he  let  the  girl  feel  his 
dislike  in  no  equivocal  manner. 

For  a  time  Annie  was  tearful  and  con- 
ciliating. Then  she  wrote  him  a  touching 
letter,  and  asked  him  to  tell  her  frankly  if 
he  had  ceased  to  love  her,  and  was  resolved 
to  break  their  marriage  off.  And  Gavin 
did  tell  her,  with  almost  brutal  frankness, 
that  he  no  longer  loved  her,  and  that  he 
had  firmly  made  up  his  mind  not  to  marry 
her.  He  said  something  about  his  heart 
being  in  Scotland,  but  that  was  only  a  bit 
of  sentiment  that  he  thought  gave  a  better 
air  to  his  unfaithfulness. 

Annie  did  not  answer  his  letter,  but 
Messrs.  Howe  &  Hummel  did,  and  Gavin 


22O  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

soon  found  himself  the  centre  of  a  breach 
of  promise  trial,  with  damages  laid  at  fifty 
thousand  dollars.  All  his  fine  poetical  love 
letters  were  in  the  newspapers;  he  was 
ashamed  to  look  men  and  women  in  the 
face;  he  suffered  a  constant  pillory  for 
weeks;  through  his  vanity,  his  self -con- 
sciousness, his  egotism  he  was  perpetually 
wounded.  But  pretty  Annie  Riley  was  the 
object  of  public  pity  and  interest,  and  she 
really  seemed  to  enjoy  her  notoriety.  The 
verdict  was  righteously  enough  in  her  favor. 
The  jury  gave  her  ten  thousand  dollars, 
and  all  expenses,  and  Gavin  Burns  was  a 
ruined  man.  His  eleven  years  savings 
only  amounted  to  nine  thousand  dollars, 
and  for  the  balance  he  was  compelled  to  sell 
his  furniture  and  give  notes  payable  out  of 
his  next  year's  salary.  He  wept  like  a 
child  as  he  signed  these  miserable  vouchers 
for  his  folly,  and  for  some  days  was  com- 
pletely prostrated  by  the  evil  he  had  called 
unto  himself.  Then  the  necessities  of  his 
position  compelled  him  to  go  to  work  again, 
though  it  was  with  a  completely  broken 
spirit. 

"I'm  getting  on  to  forty,"  he  said  to  his 
sister,  "and  I  am  beginning  the  world  over 
again !  One  woman  has  given  me  a  disap- 
pointment that  I  will  carry  to  the  grave ; 
and  another  woman  is  laughing  at  me,  for 
she  has  got  all  my  saved  siller,  and  more 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  221 

too ;  forbye,  she  is  like  to  marry  Bob  Severs 
and  share  it  with  him.  Then  I  have  them 
weary  notes  to  meet  beyond  all.  There 
never  was  a  man  so  badly  used  as  I  have 
been!" 

No  one  pitied  him  much.  Whatever  his 
acquaintances  said  to  his  face  he  knew 
right  well  their  private  opinion  was  that  he 
had  received  just  what  he  deserved. 


222  Winter  Evening  Tales. 


AN  ONLY  OFFER. 

"Aunt  Phoebe,  were  you  ever  pretty?" 

' '  When  I  was  sixteen  I  was  considered 
so.  I  was  very  like  you  then,  Julia.  I  am 
forty-three  now,  remember. ' ' 

' '  Did  you  ever  have  an  offer — an  offer  of 
marriage,  I  mean,  aunt?" 

' '  No.  Well,  that  is  not  true ;  I  did  have 
one  offer. ' ' 

''And  you  refused  it?" 

"No." 

*  'Then  he  died,  or  went  away?' ' 

"No." 

' '  Or  deserted  you  ? ' ' 

"No." 

"Then  you  deceived  him,  I  suppose?" 

"I  did  not." 

"What  ever  happened,  then?  Was  he 
poor,  or  crippled  or  something  dreadful?  " 

' '  He  was  rich  and  handsome. ' ' 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  about  him." 

' '  I  never  talk  about  him  to  any  one. ' ' 

' ' Did  it  happen  at  the  old  place?" 

'  'Yes,  Julia.  I  never  left  Ryelands  until 
I  was  thirty.  This  happened  when  I  was 
sixteen. ' ' 

"Was  he  a  farmer's  son  in  the  neighbor- 
hood?" 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  223 

"He  was  a  fine  city  gentleman." 

"Oh,  aunt,  how  interesting!  Put  down 
your  embroidery  and  tell  me  about  it ;  you 
cannot  see  to  work  longer. ' ' 

Perhaps  after  so  many  years  of  silence  a 
sudden  longing  for  sympathy  and  confidence 
seized  the  elder  lady,  for  she  let  her  work 
fall  from  her  hands,  and  smiling  sadly, 
said: 

"Twenty- seven  years  ago  I  was  standing 
one  afternoon  by  the  gate  at  Ryelands.  All 
the  work  had  been  finished  early,  and  my 
mother  and  two  elder  sisters  had  gone  to 
the  village  to  see  a  friend.  I  had  watched 
them  a  little  way  down  the  hillside,  and 
was  turning  to  go  into  the  house,  when  I 
saw  a  stranger  on  horseback  coming  up  the 
road.  He  stopped  and  spoke  to  mother, 
and  this  aroused  my  curiosity ;  so  I  lingered 
at  the  gate.  He  stopped  when  he  reached 
it,  fastened  his  horse,  and  asked,  'Is  Mr. 
Wakefiddin?' 

"I  said,  'father  was  in  the  barn,  and  I 
could  fetch  him,'  which  I  immediately 
did. 

"He  was  a  dark,  unpleasant-looking 
man,  and  had  a  masterful  way  with  him, 
even  to  father,  that  I  disliked;  but  after  a 
short,  business-like  talk,  apparently  satis- 
factory to  both,  he  went  away  without  en- 
tering the  house.  Father  put  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  and  watched  him  out  of  sight : 


224  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

then,  looking  at  me,  he  said,  'Put  the  spare 
rooms  in  order,  Phoebe. ' 

"  'They  are  in  order,  father;  but  is  that 
man  to  occupy  them?' 

"  'Yes,  he  and  his  patient,  a  young 
gentleman  of  fine  family,  who  is  in  bad 
health.' 

"  'Do  you  know  the  young  gentleman, 
father?' 

"  '  I  know  it  is  young  Alfred  Compton — 
that  is  enough  for  me. ' 

"  'And  the  dark  man  who  has  just  left? 
I  don't  like  his  looks,  father.' 

'  'Nobody  wants  thee  to  like  his  looks. 
He  is  Mr.  Alfred's  physician — a  Dr. 
Orman,  of  Boston.  Neither  of  them  are 
any  of  thy  business,  so  ask  no  more  ques- 
tions;' and  with  that  he  went  back  to  the 
barn. 

"Mother  was  not  at  all  astonished.  She 
said  there  had  been  letters  on  the  subject 
already,  and  that  she  had  been  rather  ex- 
pecting the  company.  'But,'  she  added, 
'they  will  pay  well,  and  as  Melissa  is  to  be 
married  at  Christmas,  ready  money  will  be 
very  needful. ' 

"About  dark  a  carriage  arrived.  It  con- 
tained two  gentlemen  and  several  large 
trunks.  I  had  been  watching  for  it  behind 
the  lilac  trees  and  I  saw  that  our  afternoon 
visitor  was  now  accompanied  by  a  slight, 
very  fair-man,  dressed  with  extreme  care  in 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  225 

the  very  highest  fashion.  I  saw  also  that 
he  was  handsome,  and  I  was  quite  sure  he 
must  be  rich,  or  no  doctor  would  wait  upon 
him  so  subserviently. 

"This  doctor  I  had  disliked  at  first  sight, 
and  I  soon  began  to  imagine  that  I  had 
good  cause  to  hate  him.  His  conduct  to 
his  patient  I  believed  to  be  tyrannical  and 
unkind.  Some  days  he  insisted  that  Mr. 
Compton  was  too  ill  to  go  out,  though  the 
poor  gentleman  begged  for  a  walk;  and 
again,  mother  said,  he  would  take  from  him 
all  his  books,  though  he  pleaded  urgently 
for  them. 

"One  afternoon  the  postman  brought  Dr. 
Orman  a  letter,  which  seemed  to  be  impor- 
tant, for  he  asked  father  to  drive  him  to 
the  next  town,  and  requested  mother  to  see 
that  Mr.  Compton  did  not  leave  the  house. 
I  suppose  it  was  not  a  right  thing  to  do, 
but  this  handsome  sick  stranger,  so  hardly 
used,  and  so  surrounded  with  mystery,  had 
roused  in  me  a  sincere  sympathy  for  his 
loneliness  and  suffering,  and  I  walked 
through  that  part  of  the  garden  into  which 
his  windows  looked.  We  had  been  politely 
requested  to  avoid  it,  'because  the  sight  of 
strangers  increased  Mr.  Compton 's  nervous 
condition. '  I  did  not  believe  this,  and  I 
determined  to  try  the  experiment. 

"He  was  leaning  out  of  the  window,  and 
a  sadder  face  I  never  saw.  I  smiled  and 
15 


226  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

courtesied,  and  he  immediately  leaped  the 
low  sill,  and  came  toward  me.  I  stooped 
and  began  to  tie  up  some  fallen  carnations; 
he  stooped  and  helped  me,  saying  all  the 
while  I  know  not  what,  only  that  it  seemed 
to  me  the  most  beautiful  language  I  ever 
heard.  Then  we  walked  up  and  down  the 
long  peach  walk  until  I  heard  the  rattle  of 
father's  wagon. 

After  this  we  became  quietly,  almost 
secretly,  as  far  as  Dr.  Orman  was  con- 
cerned, very  great  friends.  Mother  so 
thoroughly  pitied  Alfred,  that  she  not  only 
pretended  oblivion  of  our  friendship,  but 
even  promoted  it  in  many  ways;  and  in  the 
course  of  time  Dr.  Orman  began  to  recog- 
nize its  value.  I  was  requested  to  walk 
past  Mr.  Compton's  windows  and  say  'Good 
morning'  or  offer  him  a  flower  or  some  ripe 
peaches,  and  finally  to  accompany  the 
gentlemen  in  their  short  rambles  in  the 
neighborhood. 

"I  need  not  tell  you  how  all  this  restricted 
intercourse  ended.  We  were  soon  deeply 
in  love  with  each  other,  and  love  ever  finds 
out  the  way  to  make  himself  understood. 
We  had  many  a  five  minutes'  meeting  no 
one  knew  of,  and  when  these  were  impossi- 
ble, a  rose  bush  near  his  window  hid  for 
me  the  tenderest  little  love-letters.  In  fact, 
Julia,  I  found  him  irresistible;  he  was  so 
handsome  and  gentle,  and  though  he  must 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  227 

hare  been  thirty-five  years  old,  yet,  to  my 
thinking,  he  looked  handsomer  than  any 
younger  man  could  have  done. 

"As  the  weeks  passed  on,  the  doctor 
seemed  to  have  more  confidence  in  us,  or 
else  his  patient  was  more  completely  under 
control.  They  had  much  fewer  quarrels, 
and  Alfred  and  I  walked  in  the  garden,  and 
even  a  little  way  up  the  hill  without  opposi- 
tion or  remark.  I  do  not  know  how  I  re- 
ceived the  idea,  but  I  certainly  did  believe 
that  Dr.  Orman  was  keeping  Alfred  sick 
for  some  purpose  of  his  own,  and  I  deter- 
mined to  take  the  first  opportunity  of  arous- 
ing Alfred's  suspicions.  So  one  evening, 
when  we  were  walking  alone,  I  asked  him 
if  he  did  not  wish  to  see  his  relatives. 

"He  trembled  violently,  and  seemed  in 
the  greatest  distress,  and  only  by  the  ten- 
derest  words  could  I  soothe  him,  as,  half 
sobbing,  he  declared  that  they  were  his 
bitterest  enemies,  and  that  Dr.  Orman  was 
the  only  friend  he  had  in  the  world.  Any 
further  efforts  I  made  to  get  at  the  secret  of 
his  life  were  equally  fruitless,  and  only 
threw  him  into  paroxysms  of  distress. 
During  the  month  of  August  he  was  very 
ill,  or  at  least  Dr.  Orman  said  so.  I 
scarcely  saw  him,  there  were  no  letters  in 
the  rose  bush,  and  frequently  the  disputes 
between  the  two  men  rose  to  a  pitch  which 
father  seriously  disliked. 


228  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

1 '  One  hot  day  in  September  everyone  was 
in  the  fields  or  orchard;  only  the  doctor  and 
Alfred  and  I  were  in  the  house.  Early  in 
the  afternoon  a  boy  came  from  the  village 
with  a  letter  to  Dr.  Oman,  and  he  seemed 
very  much  perplexed,  and  at  a  loss  how  to- 
act.  At  length  he  said,  'Miss  Phoebe,  I 
must  go  to  the  village  for  a  couple  of  hours; 
I  think  Mr.  Alfred  will  sleep  until  my 
return,  but  if  not,  will  you  try  and  amuse 
him?' 

"I  promised  gladly,  and  Dr.  Orman  went 
back  to  the  village  with  the  messenger.  No 
sooner  was  he  out  of  sight  than  Alfred  ap- 
peared, and  we  rambled  about  the  garden, 
as  happy  as  two  lovers  could  be.  But  the 
day  was  extremely  hot,  and  as  the  after- 
noon advanced,  the  heat  increased.  I  pro- 
posed then  that  we  should  walk  up  the  hill, 
where  there  was  generally  a  breeze,  and 
Alfred  was  delighted  at  the  larger  freedom 
it  promised  us. 

"But  in  another  hour  the  sky  grew  dark 
and  lurid,  and  I  noticed  that  Alfred  grew 
strangely  restless.  His  cheeks  flushed,  his 
eyes  had  a  wild  look  of  terror  in  them, 
he  trembled  and  started,  and  in  spite  of  all 
my  efforts  to  soothe  him,  grew  irritable  and 
gloomy.  Yet  he  had  just  asked  me  to 
marry  him,  and  I  had  promised  I  would. 
He  had  called  me  'his  wife,'  and  I  had  told 
him  again  my  suspicions  about  Dr.  Orman, 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  229 

and  vowed  to  nurse  him  myself  back  to  per- 
fect health.  We  had  talked,  too,  of  going  to 
Europe,  and  in  the  eagerness  and  delight 
of  our  new  plans,  had  wandered  quite  up 
to  the  little  pine  forest  at  the  top  of  the  hill. 

''Then  I  noticed  Alfred's  excited  condi- 
tion, and  saw  also  that  we  were  going  to 
have  a  thunder  storm.  There  was  an 
empty  log  hut  not  far  away,  and  I  urged 
Alfred  to  try  and  reach  it  before  the  storm 
broke.  But  he  became  suddenly  like  a 
child  in  his  terror,  and  it  was  only  with 
the  greatest  difficulty  I  got  him  within  its 
shelter. 

"As  peal  after  peal  of  thunder  crashed 
above  us,  Alfred  seemed  to  lose  all  control 
of  himself,  and,  seriously  offended,  I  left 
him,  nearly  sobbing,  in  a  corner,  and  went 
and  stood  by  myself  in  the  open  door.  In 
the  very  height  of  the  storm  I  saw  my 
father,  Dr.  Orman  and  three  of  our  work- 
men coming  through  the  wood.  They  evi- 
dently suspected  our  sheltering-place,  for 
they  came  directly  toward  it. 

"'Alfred!'  shouted  Dr.  Orman,  in  the 
tone  of  an  angry  master,  'where  are  you, 
sir?  Come  here  instantly.' 

"My  pettedness  instantly  vanished,  and 
I  said:  'Doctor,  you  have  no  right  to  speak 
to  Alfred  in  that  way.  He  is  going  to  be 
my  husband,  and  I  shall  not  permit  it  any 
more. ' 


230  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"  'Miss  Wakefield, '  he  answered,  'this  is 
sheer  folly.  Look  here!' 

' '  I  turned,  and  saw  Alfred  crouching  in 
a  corner,  completely  paralyzed  with  terror; 
and  yet,  when  Dr.  Orman  spoke  to  him,  he 
rose  mechanically  as  a  dog  might  follow  his 
master's  call. 

"  'I  am  sorry,  Miss  Wakefield,  to  destroy 
your  fine .  romance.  Mr.  Alfred  Compton 
is,  as  you  perceive,  not  fit  to  marry  any 
lady.  In  fact,  I  am  his — keeper.'  ' 

"Oh,  Aunt  Phoebe!  Surely  he  was  not 
a  lunatic!" 

"So  they  said,  Julia.  His  frantic  terror 
was  the  only  sign  I  saw  of  it;  but  Dr. 
Orman  told  my  father  that  he  was  at  times 
really  dangerous,  and  that  he  was  annually 
paid  a  large  sum  to  take  charge  of  him,  as 
he  became  uncontrollable  in  an  aslyum. ' ' 

"Did  you  see  him  again?" 

"No.  I  found  a  little  note  in  the  rose 
bush,  saying  that  he  was  not  mad ;  that  he 
remembered  my  promise  to  be  his  wife,  and 
would  surely  come  some  day  and  claim  me. 
But  they  left  in  three  days,  and  Melissa, 
•whose  wedding  outfit  was  curtailed  in  con- 
sequence, twitted  me  very  unkindly  about 
my  fine  crazy  lover.  It  was  a  little  hard  on 
me,  for  he  was  the  only  lover  I  ever  had. 
Melissa  and  Jane  both  married,  and  went 
west  with  their  husbands;  I  lived  on  at 
Ryelands,  a  faded  little  old  maid,  until  my 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  231 

uncle  Joshua  sent  for  me  to  come  to  New 
York  and  keep  his  fine  house  for  him.  You 
know  that  he  left  me  all  he  had  when  he 
died,  nearly  two  years  ago.  Then  I  sent 
for  you.  I  remembered  my  own  lonely 
youth,  and  thought  I  would  give  you  a  fair 
chance,  dear." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  again,  aunt?" 

"Of  him,  never.  His  elder  brother  died 
more  than  a  year  ago.  I  suppose  Alfred 
died  many  years  since;  he  was  very  frail 
and  delicate.  I  thought  it  was  refinement 
and  beauty  then;  I  know  now  it  was  ill 
health. ' ' 

"Poor  aunt!" 

' '  Nay,  child ;  I  was  very  happy  while  my 
dream  lasted;  and  I  never  will  believe  but 
that  Alfred  in  his  love  for  me  was  quite 
sane,  and  perhaps  more  sincere  than  many 
wiser  men." 

After  this  confidence  Miss  Phoebe  seemed 
to  take  a  great  pleasure  in  speaking  of  the 
little  romance  of  her  youth.  Often  the  old 
and  the  young  maidens  sat  in  the  twilight 
discussing  the  probabilities  of  poor  Alfred 
Compton's  life  and  death,  and  every  dis- 
cussion left  them  more  and  more  positive 
that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  some  cruel 
plot.  The  subject  never  tired  Miss  Phoebe, 
and  Julia,  in  the  absence  of  a  lover  of  her 
own,  found  in  it  a  charm  quite  in  keeping 
with  her  own  youthful  dreams. 


232  Winter  Evening  Talcs. 

One  cold  night  in  the  middle  of  January 
they  had  talked  over  the  old  subject  until 
both  felt  it  to  be  exhausted — at  least  for 
that  night.  Julia  drew  aside  the  heavy 
satin  curtains,  and  looking  out  said,  "It  is 
snowing  heavily,  aunt;  to-morrow  we  can 
have  a  sleigh  ride.  Why,  there  is  a  sleigh 
at  our  door !  Who  can  it  be  ?  A  gentle- 
man, aunt,  and  he  is  coming  here." 

"Close  the  curtains,  child.  It  is  my 
lawyer,  Mr.  Howard.  He  promised  to  call 
to-night." 

' '  Oh,  dear !  I  was  hoping  it  was  some 
nice  strange  person. ' ' 

Miss  Phoebe  did  not  answer;  her  thoughts 
were  far  away.  In  fact,  she  had  talked 
about  her  old  lover  until  there  had  sprung 
up  anew  in  her  heart  a  very  strong  senti- 
mental affection  for  his  memory ;  and  when 
the  servant  announced  a  visitor  on  busi- 
ness, she  rose  with  a  sigh  from  her  reflec- 
tions, and  went  into  the  reception-room. 

In  a  few  minutes  Julia  heard  her  voice, 
in  rapid,  excited  tones,  and  ere  she  could 
decide  whether  to  go  to  her  or  not,  Aunt 
Phoebe  entered  the  room,  holding  by  the 
hand  a  gentleman  whom  she  announced  as 
Mr.  Alfred  Compton.  Julia  was  disap- 
pointed, to  say  the  least,  but  she  met  him 
with  enthusiasm.  Perhaps  Aunt  Phoebe 
had  quite  unconsciously  magnified  the 
beauty  of  the  youthful  Alfred:  certainly 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  233 

this  one  was  not  handsome.  He  was  sixty, 
at  least,  his  fair  curling  locks  had  vanished, 
and  his  fine  figure  was  slightly  bent.  But 
the  clear,  sensitive  face  remained,  and  he 
was  still  dressed  with  scrupulous  care. 

The  two  women  made  much  of  him.  In 
half  an  hour  Delmonico  had  furnished  a  de- 
licious little  banquet,  and  Alfred  had  pro- 
posed, with  old-fashioned  grace,  the  health 
of  ' ( his  promised  wife,  Miss  Phoebe  Wake- 
field,  best  and  loveliest  of  women." 

Miss  Phoebe  laughed,  but  she  dearly 
liked  it;  and  hand  in  hand  the  two  old 
lovers  sat,  while  Alfred  told  his  sad  little 
story  of  life-long  wrong  and  suffering;  of 
an  intensely  nervous,  self-conscious  nature, 
driven  to  extremity  by  cruel  usage  and 
many  wrongs.  At  the  mention  of  Dr. 
Oman  Miss  Phoebe  expressed  herself  a 
little  bitterly. 

''Nay,  Phoebe,"  said  Alfred;  "whatever 
he  was  when  my  brother  put  me  in  his  care, 
he  became  my  true  friend.  To  his  skill 
and  patience  I  owe  my  restoration  to  per- 
fect health ;  and  to  his  firm  advocacy  of  my 
right  and  ability  to  manage  my  own  estate 
I  owe  the  position  I  now  hold,  and  my 
ability  to  come  and  ask  Phoebe  to  redeem 
her  never-forgotten  promise. ' ' 

Perhaps  Julia  got  a  little  tired  of  these 
old-fashioned  lovers,*  but  they  never  tired  of 
each  other.  Miss  Phoebe  was  not  the 


234  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

least  abashed  by  any  contrast  between  her 
ideal  and  her  real  Alfred,  and  Alfred  was 
never  weary  of  assuring  her  that  he  found 
her  infinitely  more  delightful  and  womanly 
than  in  the  days  of  their  first  courtship. 

She  cannot  even  call  them  a  "silly"  or 
* '  foolish ' '  couple,  or  use  any  other  relieving 
phrase  of  that  order,  for  Miss  Phoebe — or 
rather  Mrs.  Compton — resents  any  word  as 
applied  to  Mr.  Alfred  Compton  that  would 
imply  less  than  supernatural  wisdom  and 
intelligence.  "No  one  but  those  who  have 
known  him  as  long  as  I  have,"  she  con- 
tinually avers,  "can  possibly  estimate  the 
superior  information  and  infallible  judg- 
ment of  my  husband. ' ' 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  235 


TWO  FAIR  DECEIVERS. 

What  do  young  men  talk  about  when 
they  sit  at  the  open  windows  chatting  on 
summer  evenings?  Do  you  suppose  it  is  of 
love?  Indeed,  I  suspect  it  is  of  money;  or, 
if  not  of  money,  then,  at  least,  of  something 
that  either  makes  money  or  spends  it. 

Cleve  Sullivan  has  been  spending  his  for 
four  years  in  Europe,  and  he  has  just  been 
telling  his  friend  John  Selden  how  he  spent 
it.  John  has  spent  his  in  New  York — he 
is  inclined  to  think  just  as  profitably.  Both 
stories  conclude  in  the  same  way. 

1 '  I  have  not  a  thousand  dollars  left, 
John. ' ' 

"Nor  I,  Cleve." 

"I  thought  your  cousin  died  two  years 
ago;  surely  you  have  not  spent  all  the  old 
gentleman's  money  already?" 

"I  only  got  $20,000;    I  owed  half  of  it." 

' '  Only  $20,000 !  What  did  he  do  with  it  ?  " 

"Gave  it  to  his  wife.  He  married  a 
beauty  about  a  year  after  you  went  away, 
died  in  a  few  months  afterward,  and  left 
her  his  whole  fortune.  I  had  no  claim  on 
him.  He  educated  me,  gave  me  a  profes- 
sion, and  $20,000.  That  was  very  well :  he 
was  only  my  mother's  cousin." 


236  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"And  the  widow — where  is  she?" 

"Living  at  his  country-seat.  I  have 
never  seen  her.  She  was  one  of  the  St. 
Maurs,  of  Maryland. ' ' 

"Good  family,  and  all  beauties.  Why 
don't  you  marry  the  widow?" 

' '  Why,  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing. ' ' 

"You  can't  think  of  anything  better. 
Write  her  a  little  note  at  once;  say  that 
you  and  I  will  soon  be  in  her  neighbor- 
hood, and  that  gratitude  to  your  cousin, 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing — then  beg  leave 
to  call  and  pay  respects, ' '  etc. ,  etc. 

John  demurred  a  good  deal  to  the  plan, 
but  Cleve  was  masterful,  and  the  note  was 
written,  Cleve  himself  putting  it  in  the 
post-office. 

That  was  on  Monday  night.  On  Wed- 
nesday morning  the  widow  Clare  found  it 
with  a  dozen  others  upon  her  breakfast 
table.  She  was  a  dainty,  high-bred  little 
lady,  with 

'  'Eyes  that  drowse  with  dreamy  splendor, 
Cheeks  with  rose-leaf  tintings  tender, 
Lips  like  fragrant  posy," 

and  withal  a  kind,  hospitable  temper,  well 
inclined  to  be  happy  in  the  happiness  of 
others. 

But  this  letter  could  not  be  answered 
with  the  usual  polite  formula.  She  was 
quite  aware  that  John  Selden  had  regarded 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          237 

himself  for  many  years  as  his  cousin's  heir, 
and  that  her  marriage  with  the  late  Thomas 
Clare  had  seriously  altered  his  prospects. 
Women  easily  see  through  the  best  laid 
plans  of  men,  and  this  plan  was  transparent 
enough  to  the  shrewd  little  widow.  John 
would  scarcely  have  liked  the  half-con- 
temptuous shrug  and  smile  which  termi- 
nated her  private  thoughts  on  the  matter. 

"Clementine,  if  you  could  spare  a  mo- 
ment from  your  fashion  paper,  I  want  to 
consult  you,  dear,  about  a  visitor." 

Clementine  raised  her  blue  eyes,  dropped 
her  paper,  and  said,  "Who  is  it,  Fan?  " 

"It  is  John  Selden.  If  Mr.  Clare  had 
not  married  me,  he  would  have  inherited 
the  Clare  estate.  I  think  he  is  coming 
now  in  order  to  see  if  it  is  worth  while 
asking  for,  encumbered  by  his  cousin's 
widow. ' ' 

"What  selfishness!  Write  and  tell  him 
that  you  are  just  leaving  for  the  Suez 
Canal,  or  the  Sandwich  Islands,  or  any 
other  inconvenient  place. ' ' 

"No;  I  have  a  better  plan  than  that — 
Clementine,  do  stop  reading  a  few  minutes. 
I  will  take  that  pretty  cottage  at  Ryebank 
for  the  summer,  and  Mr.  Selden  and  his 
friend  shall  visit  us  there.  No  one  knows 
us  in  the  place,  and  I  will  take  none  of  the 
servants  with  me." 

"Well?" 


238  Winter  Rvening  Tales. 

"Then,  Clementine,  you  are  to  be  the 
widow  Clare,  and  I  your  poor  friend  and 
companion." 

1 ' Good !  very  good !  'The  Fair  Deceivers' 
— an  excellent  comedy.  How  I  shall  snub 
you,  Fan !  And  for  once  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  outdressing  you.  But  has  not 
Mr.  Selden  seen  you?" 

' '  No ;  I  was  married  in  Maryland,  and  went 
immediately  to  Europe.  I  came  back  a  widow 
two  years  ago,  but  Mr.  Selden  has  never  re- 
membered me  until  now.  I  wonder  who 
this  friend  is  that  he  proposes  to  bring 
with  him?" 

"Oh,  men  always  think  in  pairs,  Fan. 
They  never  decide  on  anything  until  their 
particular  friend  approves.  I  dare  say  they 
wrote  the  letter  together.  What  is  the 
gentleman's  name?" 

The  widow  examined  the  note.  "  'My 
friend  Mr.  Cleve  Sullivan. '  Do  you  know 
him,  Clementine?" 

' '  No ;  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  never  saw 
Mr.  Cleve  Sullivan.  I  don't  fall  in  love 
with  the  name — do  you  ?  But  pray  accept 
the  offer  for  both  gentlemen,  Fan,  and  write 
this  morning,  dear."  Then  Clementine 
returned  to  the  consideration  of  the  lace  in 
coquilles  for  her  new  evening  dress. 

The  plan  so  hastily  sketched  was  subse- 
quently thoroughly  discussed  and  carried 
out.  The  cottage  at  Ryebank  was  taken, 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  239 

and  one  evening  at  the  end  of  June  the  two 
ladies  took  possession  of  it.  The  new 
widow  Clare  had  engaged  a  maid  in  New 
York,  and  fell  into  her  part  with  charming 
ease  and  a  very  pretty  assumption  of 
authority ;  and  the  real  widow,  in  her  plain 
dress  and  pensive,  quiet  manners,  realized 
effectively  the  idea  of  a  cultivated  but  de- 
pendent companion.  They  had  two  days 
in  which  to  rehearse  their  parts  and  get  all 
the  household  machinery  in  order,  and  then 
the  gentlemen  arrived  at  Ryebank. 

Fan  and  Clementine  were  quite  ready  for 
their  first  call ;  the  latter  in  a  rich  and  ex- 
quisite morning  costume,  the  former  in  a 
simple  dress  of  spotted  lawn.  Clementine 
went  through  the  introductions  with  con- 
summate ease  of  manner,  and  in  half  an 
hour  they  were  a  very  pleasant  party. 
John's  "cousinship"  afforded  an  excellent 
basis  for  informal  companionship,  and'* 
Clementine  gave  it  full  prominence.  In- 
deed, in  a  few  days  John  began  to  find  the 
relationship  tiresome;  it  had  been  "Cousin 
John,  do  this,"  and  "Cousin  John,  come 
here,"  continually;  and  one  night  when 
Cleve  and  he  sat  down  to  smoke  their  final 
cigar,  he  was  irritable  enough  to  give  his 
objections  the  form  of  speech. 

' '  Cleve,  to  tell  you  the  honest  truth,  I  do 
not  like  Mrs.  Clare. ' ' 

' '  I  think  she  is  a  very  lovely  woman,  John. ' ' 


240  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"I  say  nothing  against  her  beauty, 
Cleve;  I  don't  like  her,  and  I  have  no 
mind  to  occupy  the  place  that  beautiful  ill- 
used  Miss  Marat  fills.  The  way  Cousin 
Clare  ignores  or  snubs  a  woman  to  whom 
she  is  every  way  inferior  makes  me  angry 
enough,  I  assure  you. ' ' 

"Don't  fall  in  love  with  the  wrong 
woman,  John." 

' '  Your  advice  is  too  late,  Cleve ;  I  am  in 
love.  There  is  no  use  in  us  deceiving  our- 
selves or  each  other.  You  seem  to  like  the 
widow — why  not  marry  her?  I  am  quite 
willing  you  should. ' ' 

"Thank  you,  John;  I  have  already  made 
some  advances  that  way.  They  have  been 
favorably  received,  I  think." 

"You  are  so  handsome,  a  fellow  has  no 
chance  against  you.  But  we  shall  hardly 
quarrel,  if  you  do  not  interfere  between 
lovely  little  Clement  and  myself. ' ' 

"I  could  not  afford  to  smile  on  her,  John ; 
she  is  too  poor.  And  what  on  earth  are 
you  going  to  do  with  a  poor  wife  ?  Nothing 
added  to  nothing  will  not  make  a  decent 
living. ' ' 

"I  am  going  to  ask  her  to  be  my  wife, 
and  if  she  does  me  the  honor  to  say  'Yes,' 
I  will  make  a  decent  living  out  of  my  pro- 
fession." 

From  this  time  forth  John  devoted  him- 
self with  some  ostentation  to  his  supposed 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  241 

cousin's  companion.  He  was  determined 
to  let  the  widow  perceive  that  he  had  made 
his  choice,  and  that  he  could  not  be  bought 
with  her  money.  Mr.  Selden  and  Miss 
Marat  were  always  together,  and  the  widow 
did  not  interfere  between  her  companion 
and  her  cousin.  Perhaps  she  was  rather 
glad  of  their  close  friendship,  for  the  hand- 
some Cleve  made  a  much  more  delightful 
attendant.  Thus  the  party  fell  quite  nat- 
urally into  couples,  and  the  two  weeks  that 
the  gentlemen  had  first  fixed  as  the  limit  of 
their  stay  lengthened  into  two  months. 

It  was  noticeable  that  as  the  ladies  be- 
came more  confidential  with  their  lovers, 
they  had  less  to  say  to  each  other;  and  it 
began  at  last  to  be  quite  evident  to  the  real 
widow  that  the  play  must  end  for  the  pres- 
ent, or  the  denouement  would  come  pre- 
maturely. Circumstances  favored  her 
determination.  One  night  Clementine,  with 
a  radiant-  face,  came  into  her  friend's 
room,  and  said,  "Fan,  I  have  something 
to  tell  you.  Cleve  has  asked  me  to  marry 
him." 

"Now,  Clement,  you  have  told  him  all; 
I  know  you  have. ' ' 

' '  Not  a  word,  Fan.  He  still  believes  me 
the  widow  Clare. ' ' 

"Did  you  accept  him?" 

' '  Conditionally.  I  am  to  give  him  a  final 
answer  when  we  go  to  the  city  in  October. 
16 


242  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

You  are  going  to  New  York  this  winter,  are 
you  not?" 

' '  Yes.  Our  little  play  progresses  finely. 
John  Selden  asked  me  to  be  his  wife  to- 
night." 

' '  I  told  you  men  think  and  act  in  pairs. ' ' 

"John  is  a  noble  fellow.  I  pretended  to 
think  that  his  cousin  had  ill-used  him,  and 
he  defended  him  until  I  was  ashamed  of 
myself;  absolutely  said,  Clement,  that  you 
were  a  sufficient  excuse  for  Mr.  Clare's  will. 
Then  he  blamed  his  own  past  idleness  so 
much,  and  promised  if  I  would  only  try  and 
endure  'the  slings  and  arrows'  of  your  out- 
rageous temper,  Clement,  for  two  years 
longer,  he  would  have  made  a  home  for  me 
in  which  I  could  be  happy.  Yes,  Clement, 
I  should  marry  John  Selden  if  we  had  not  a 
five-dollar  bill  between  us. ' ' 

"I  wish  Cleve  had  been  a  little  more  ex- 
plicit about  his  money  affairs.  However, 
there  is  time  enough  yet.  When  they  leave 
to-morrow7,  what  shall  we  do?" 

"We  will  remain  here  another  month; 
Levine  will  have  the  house  ready  for  me 
by  that  time.  I  have  written  to  him  about 
refurnishing  the  parlors. ' ' 

So  next  day  the  lovers  parted,  with  many 
promises  of  constant  letters  and  future 
happy  days  together.  The  interval  was 
long  and  dull  enough;  but  it  passed,  and 
one  morning  both  gentlemen  received  notes 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  243. 

of  invitation  to  a  small  dinner  party  at  the 

widow  Clare's  mansion  in  street. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  dressing  for  this 
party.  Cleve  wished  to  make  his  entrance 
into  his  future  home  as  became  the  pros- 
pective master  of  a  million  and  a  half  of 
money,  and  John  was  desirous  of  not  suffer- 
ing in  Clement's  eyes  by  any  comparison 
with  the  other  gentlemen  who  would  prob- 
ably be  there. 

Scarcely  had  they  entered  the  drawing- 
room  when  the  ladies  appeared,  the  true 
widow  Clare  no  longer  in  the  unassuming 
toilet  she  had  hitherto  worn,  but  magnifi- 
cent in  white  crepe  lisse  and  satin,  her  arms 
and  throat  and  pretty  head  flashing  with 
sapphires  and  diamonds.  Her  companion 
had  assumed  now  the  role  of  simplicity,  and 
Cleve  was  disappointed  with  the  first  glance 
at  her  plain  white  Chambery  gauze  dress. 

John  had  seen  nothing  but  the  bright 
face  of  the  girl  he  loved  and  the  love-light 
in  her  eyes.  Before  she  could  speak  he 
had  taken  both  her  hands  and  whispered, 
"Dearest  and  best  and  loveliest  Clement." 

Her  smile  answered  him  first.  Then  she 
said:  " Pardon  me,  Mr.  Selden,  but  we 
have  been  in  masquerade  all  summer,  and 
now  we  must  unmask  before  real  life  be- 
gins. My  name  is  not  Clementine  Marat, 
but  Fanny  Clare.  Cousin  John,  I  hope  you 
are  not  disappointed. ' '  Then  she  put  her 


244  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

hand  into  John's,  and  they  wandered  off 
into  the  conservatory  to  finish  their  ex- 
planation. 

Mr.  Cleve  Sullivan  found  himself  at  that 
moment  in  the  most  trying  circumstance  of 
his  life.  The  real  Clementine  Marat  stood 
looking  down  at  a  flower  on  the  carpet,  and 
evidently  expecting  him  to  resume  the  ten- 
der attitude  he  had  been  accustomed  to  bear 
toward  her.  He  was  a  man  of  quick  deci- 
sions where  his  own  interests  were  con- 
cerned, and  it  did  not  take  him  half  a 
minute  to  review  his  position  and  determine 
what  to  do.  This  plain  blonde  girl  without 
fortune  was  not  the  girl  he  could  marry; 
she  had  deceived  him,  too — he  had  a  sudden 
and  severe  spasm  of  morality;  his  con- 
fidence was  broken ;  he  thought  it  was  very 
poor  sport  to  play  with  a  man's  most  sacred 
feelings;  he  had  been  deeply  disappointed 
and  grieved,  etc.,  etc. 

Clementine  stood  perfectly  still,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  carpet  and  her  cheeks 
graduall)'  flushing,  as  Cleve  made  his  awk- 
ward accusations.  She  gave  him  no  help 
and  she  made  no  defence,  and  it  soon  be- 
comes embarrassing  for  a  man  to  stand  in 
the  middle  of  a  large  drawing-room  and  talk 
to  himself  about  any  girl.  Cleve  felt  it  so. 

' 'Have  you  done,  sir?"  at  length  she 
asked,  lifting  to  his  face  a  pair  of  blue  eyes, 
scintillating  with  scorn  and  anger.  "I 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  245 

promised  you  my  final  answer  to  your  suit 
when  we  met  in  New  York.  You  have 
spared  me  that  trouble.  Good  evening, 
sir." 

Clementine  showed  to  no  one  her  disap- 
pointment, and  she  probably  soon  recovered 
from  it.  Her  life  was  full  of  many  other 
pleasant  plans  and  hopes,  and  she  could 
well  afford  to  let  a  selfish  lover  pass  out  of  it. 
She  remained  with  her  friend  until  after 
the  marriage  between  her  and  John  Selden 
had  been  consummated;  and  then  Cleve 
saw  her  name  among  the  list  of  passengers 
sailing  on  one  particular  day  for  Europe. 
As  John  and  his  bride  left  on  the  same 
steamer  Cleve  supposed,  of  course,  she  had 
gone  in  their  company. 

"Nice  thing  it  would  have  been  for  Cleve 
Sullivan  to  marry  John  Selden 's  wife's 
maid,  or  something  or  other?  John  always 
was  a  lucky  fellow.  Some  fellows  are  al- 
ways unlucky  in  love  affairs — I  always  am. ' ' 

Half  a  year  afterward  he  reiterated  this 
statement  with  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary 
emphasis.  He  was  just  buttoning  his 
gloves  preparatory  to  starting  for  his  after- 
noon drive,  when  an  old  acquaintance 
hailed  him. 

1  'Oh,  it's  that  fool  Belmar, ' '  he  muttered ; 
' '  I  shall  have  to  offer  him  a  ride.  I  thought 
he  was  in  Paris.  Hello,  Belmar,  when  did 
you  get  back?  Have  a  ride?' ' 


246  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"No,  thank  you.  I  have  promised  my 
wife  to  ride  with  her  this  afternoon. " 

1 '  Your  wife !    When  were  you  married  ? ' ' 

"Last  month,  in  Paris." 

"And  the  happy  lady  was — ' ' 

"Why,  I  thought  you  knew;  everyone  is 
talking  about  my  good  fortune.  Mrs.  Bel- 
mar  is  old  Paul  Marat's  only  child. ' ' 

"What?" 

"Miss  Clementine  Marat.  She  brings 
me  nearly  $3,000,000  in  money  and  real 
estate,  and  a  heart  beyond  all  price. ' ' 

"How  on  earth  did  you  meet  her?" 

"She  was  traveling  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Selden — you  know  John  Selden.  She  has 
lived  with  Mrs.  Selden  ever  since  she  left 
school;  they  were  friends  when  they  were 
girls  together. ' ' 

Cleve  gathered  up  his  reins,  and  nodding 
to  Mr.  Frank  Belmar,  drove  at  a  finable 
rate  up  the  avenue  and  through  the  park. 
He  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak  to  any 
one,  and  when  he  did,  the  remark  which  he 
made  to  himself  in  strict  confidence  was 
not  flattering.  For  once  Mr.  Cleve  Sullivan 
told  Mr.  Cleve  Sullivan  that  he  had  been 
badly  punished,  and  that  he  well  deserved  it. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          247 


THE  TWO  MR.  SMITHS. 

"It  is  not  either  her  money  or  her  posi- 
tion that  dashes  me,  Carrol ;  it  is  my  own 
name.  Think  of  asking  Eleanor  Bethune 
to  become  Mrs.  William  Smith!  If  it  had 
been  Alexander  Smith — " 

"Or  Hyacinth  Smith." 

"Yes,  Hyacinth  Smith  would  have  done; 
but  plain  William  Smith!" 

' '  Well,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  you  are  not  to 
blame.  Apologize  to  the  lady  for  the 
blunder  of  your  godfathers  and  godmothers. 
Stupid  old  parties!  They  ought  to  have 
thought  of  Hyacinth;"  and  Carrol  forth- 
with began  to  buckle  on  his  spurs. 

' '  Come  with  me,  Carrol. " 

"No,  thank  you.  It  is  against  my  prin- 
ciples to  like  anyone  better  than  myself,  and 
Alice  Fontaine  is  a  temptation  to  do  so." 

"/don't  like  Alice's  style  at  all." 

' '  Of  course  not.  Alice's  beauty,  as  com- 
pared with  Mrs.  Bethune's  settled  income, 
is  skin-deep. ' ' 

If  sarcasm  was  intended,  Smith  did  not 
perceive  it.  He  took  the  criticism  at  its 
face  value,  and  answered,  "Yes,  Eleanor's 
income  is  satisfactory ;  and  besides  that,  she 


248  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

has  all  kinds  of  good  qualities,  and  several 
accomplishments.  If  I  only  could  offer 
her,  with  myself,  a  suitable  name  for 
them!" 

' '  Could  you  not,  in  taking  Mrs.  Bethune 
and  her  money,  take  her  name  also?" 

"N-n-no.  A  man  does  not  like  to  lose  all 
his  individuality  in  his  wife's,  Carrol." 

"Well,  then,  I  have  no  other  suggestion, 
and  I  am  going  to  ride." 

So  Carrol  went  to  the  park,  and  Smith 
went  to  his  mirror.  The  occupation  gave 
him  the  courage  he  wanted.  He  was  un- 
doubtedly a  very  handsome  man,  and  he 
had,  also,  very  fine  manners;  indeed,  he 
would  have  been  a  very  great  man  if  the 
world  had  only  been  a  drawing-room,  for, 
polished  and  fastidious,  he  dreaded  nothing 
so  much  as  an  indecorum,  and  had  the  air 
of  being  uncomfortable  unless  his  hands 
were  in  kid  gloves. 

Smith  had  a  standing  invitation  to  Mrs. 
Bethune's  five-o'clock  teas,  and  he  was  al- 
ways considered  an  acquisition.  He  was 
also  very  fond  of  going  to  them ;  for  under 
no  circumstances  was  Mrs.  Bethune  so 
charming.  To  see  her  in  this  hour  of  per- 
fect relaxation  was  to  understand  how  great 
and  beautiful  is  the  art  of  idleness.  Her 
ease  and  grace,  her  charming  aimlessness, 
her  indescribable  air  of  inaction,  were  all  so 
many  proofs  of  her  having  been  born  in  the 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  249 

purple  of  wealth  and  fashion ;  no  parvenu 
could  ever  hope  to  imitate  them. 

Alice  Fontaine  never  tried.  She  had 
been  taken  from  a  life  of  polite  shifts  and 
struggles  by  her  cousin,  Mrs.  Bethune,  two 
years  before;  and  the  circumstances  that 
were  to  the  one  the  mere  accidents  of  her 
position  were  to  the  other  a  real  holiday- 
making. 

Alice  met  Mr.  Smith  with  empressement, 
fluttered  about  the  tea-tray  like  a  butterfly, 
wasted  her  bonmots  and  the  sugar  reck- 
lessly, and  was  as  full  of  pretty  animation 
as  her  cousin  Bethune  was  of  elegant 
repose. 

' '  I  am  glad  you  are  come,  Mr.  Smith, ' '  said 
Mrs.  Bethune.  "Alice  has  been  trying  to 
spur  me  into  a  fight.  I  don't  want  to  throw 
a  lance  in.  Now  you  can  be  my  substitute. ' ' 

"Mr.  Smith,"  said  Alice  impetuously, 
"don't  you  think  that  women  ought  to 
have  the  same  rights  as  men?" 

"Really,  Miss  Alice,  I — I  don't  know. 
When  women  have  got  what  they  call  their 
'rights,'  do  they  expect  to  keep  what  they 
call  their  'privileges'  also?" 

"Certainly  they  do.  When  they  have 
driven  the  men  to  emigrate,  to  scrub  floors, 
and  to  jump  into  the  East  River,  they  will 
still  expect  "the  corner  seat,  the  clean  side 
of  the  road,  the  front  place,  and  the  pick  of 
everything." 


250  Winter  Evening 

"Ah,  indeed!  And  when  all  the  public 
and  private  business  of  the  country  is  in 
their  hands,  will  they  still  expect  to  find 
time  for  five-o'clock  teas?" 

"Yes,  sir.  They  will  conduct  the  affairs 
of  this  regenerated  country,  and  not  neglect 
either  their  music  or  their  pets,  their  dress 
or  their  drawing-room.  They  will  be  per- 
fectly able  to  do  the  one,  and  not  leave  the 
other  undone. ' ' 

' '  Glorious  creatures !  Then  they  will  ac- 
complish what  men  have  been  trying  to  do 
ever  since  the  world  began.  They  will  get 
two  days'  work  out  of  one  day." 

"Of  course  they  will." 

"But  how?" 

"Oh,  machines  and  management.  It  will 
be  done. ' ' 

"But  your  answer  is  illogical,  Miss 
Alice." 

"Of  course.  Men  always  take  refuge  in 
their  logic;  and  yet,  with  all  their  boasted 
skill,  they  have  never  mastered  the  useful 
and  elementary  proposition,  'It  will  be,  be- 
cause it  will  be. '  ' 

Mr.  Smith  was  very  much  annoyed  at  the 
tone  Alice  was  giving  to  the  conversation. 
She  was  treating  him  as  a  joke,  and  he  felt 
how  impossible  it  was  going  to  be  to  get 
Mrs.  Bethune  to  treat  him  seriously.  In- 
deed, before  he  could  restore  the  usual 
placid,  tender  tone  of  their  tete-a-tete  tea, 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  251 

two  or  three  ladies  joined  the  party,  and 
the  hour  was  up,,  and  the  opportunity 
lost. 

However,  he  was  not  without  consola- 
tion: Eleanor's  hand  had  rested  a  moment 
very  tenderly  in  his ;  he  had  seen  her  white 
cheek  flush  and  her  eyelids  droop,  and  he 
felt  almost  sure  that  he  was  beloved.  And 
as  he  had  determined  that  night  to  test  his 
fortune,  he  was  not  inclined  to  let  himself 
be  disappointed.  Consequently  he  decided 
on  writing  to  her,  for  he  was  rather  proud 
of  his  letters ;  and,  indeed,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  he  had  an  elegant  and  eloquent 
way  of  putting  any  case  in  which  he  was 
personally  interested. 

Eleanor  Bethune  thought  so.  She  re- 
ceived his  proposal  on  her  return  from  a 
very  stupid  party,  and  as  soon  as  she  saw 
his  writing  she  began  to  consider  how  much 
more  delightful  the  evening  would  have 
been  if  Mr.  Smith  had  been  present,  His 
glowing  eulogies  on  her  beauty,  and  his 
passionate  descriptions  of  his  own  affection, 
his  hopes  and  his  despairs,  chimed  in  with 
her  mood  exactly.  Already  his  fine  person 
and  manners  had  made  a  great  impression 
on  her;  she  had  been  very  near  loving 
him ;  nothing,  indeed,  had  been  needed  but 
that  touch  of  electricity  conveyed  in  the 
knowledge  that  she  was  beloved. 

Such   proposals   seldom    or    never    take 


252  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

women  unawares.  Eleanor  had  been  ex- 
pecting it,  and  had  already  decided  on  her 
answer.  So,  after  a  short,  happy  reflection, 
she  opened  her  desk  and  wrote  Mr.  Smith 
a  few  lines  which  she  believed  would  make 
him  supremely  happy. 

Then  she  went  to  Alice's  room  and  woke 
her  out  of  her  first  sleep.  "Oh,  you  lazy 
girl;  why  did  you  not  crimp  your  hair? 
Get  up  again,  Alice  dear;  I  have  a  secret 
to  tell  you.  I  am — going — to — marry — Mr. 
—Smith." 

"I  knew  some  catastrophe  was  impend- 
ing, Eleanor;  I  have  felt  it  all  day.  Poor 
Eleanor ! ' ' 

"Now,  Alice,  be  reasonable.  What  do 
you  think  of  him — honestly,  you  know?" 

"The  man  has  excellent  qualities;  for 
instance,  a  perfect  taste  in  cravats  and  an 
irreproachable  propriety.  Nobody  ever 
saw  him  in  any  position  out  of  the  proper 
centre  of  gravity.  Now,  there  is  Carrol, 
always  sitting  round  on  tables  or  easels,  or 
if  on  a  chair,  on  the  back  or  arms,  or  any 
way  but  as  other  Christians  sit. .  Then  Mr. 
Smith  is  handsome ;  very  much  so. ' ' 

"Oh,  you  do  admit  that?" 

"  Yes;  but  I  don't  myself  like  men  of  the 
hairdresser  style  of  beauty. ' ' 

"Alice,  what  makes  you  dislike  him  so 
much?" 

"Indeed,  I  don't,  Eleanor.     I  think  he 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  253 

is  very  'nice,'  and  very  respectable.  Every 
one  will  say,  'What  a  suitable  match !'  and 
I  dare  say  you  will  be  very  happy.  He 
will  do  everything  you  tell  him  to  do, 
Eleanor;  and — oh  dear  me! — how  I  should 
hate  a  husband  of  that  kind!" 

"You  little  hypocrite! — with  your  talk 
of  woman's  'rights'  and  woman's  'su- 
premacy.' ' 

"No,  Eleanor  love,  don't  call  it  hypo- 
crisy, please;  say  many-sidedness — it  is  a 
more  womanly  definition.  But  if  it  is 
really  to  be  so,  then  I  wish  you  joy,  cousin. 
And  what  are  you  going  to  wear?" 

This  subject  proved  sufficiently  attractive 
to  keep  Alice  awake  a  couple  of  hours. 
She  even  crimped  her  hair  in  honor  of  the 
bridal  shopping;  and  before  matters  had 
been  satisfactorily  arranged  she  was  so  full 
of  anticipated  pleasures  that  she  felt  really 
grateful  to  the  author  of  them,  and  per- 
mitted herself  to  speak  with  enthusiasm  of 
the  bridegroom. 

"He'll  be  a  sight  to  see,  Eleanor,  on  his 
marriage  day.  There  won't  be  a  hand- 
somer man,  nor  a  better  dressed  man,  in 
America,  and  his  clothes  will  all  come  from 
Paris,  I  dare  say. ' ' 

"I  think  we  will  go  to  Paris  first." 
Then  Eleanor  went  into  a  graphic  descrip- 
tion of  the  glories  and  pleasures  of  Paris, 
as  she  had  experienced  them  during  her 


254  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

first  bridal  tour.  "It  is  the  most  fasci- 
nating city  in  the  world,  Alice. ' ' 

*'I  dare  say,  but  it  is  a  ridiculous  shame 
having  it  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  place. 
What  is  the  use  of  having  a  Paris,  when 
-one  has  to  sail  three  thousand  miles  to  get 
at  it  ?  Eleanor,  I  feel  that  I  shall  have  to  go. ' ' 

"So  you  shall,  dear;  I  won't  go  without 
you. ' ' 

"Oh,  no,  darling;  not  with  Mr.  Smith: 
I  really  could  not.  I  shall  have  to  try  and 
manage  matters  with  Mr.  Carrol.  We  shall 
quarrel  all  the  way  across,  of  course,  but 
then— 

"Why  don't  you  adopt  his  opinions, 
Alice?" 

"I  intend  to — for  a  little  while;  but  it  is 
impossible  to  go  on  with  the  same  set  of 
opinions  forever.  Just  think  how  dull  con- 
versation would  become ! ' ' 

"Well,  dear,  you  may  go  to  sleep  now, 
for  mind,  I  shall  wrant  you  down  to  break- 
fast before  eleven.  I  have  given  'Some- 
body' permission  to  call  at  five  o'clock  to- 
morrow— or  rather  to-da}7 — and  we  shall 
have  a  tete-a-tete  tea. ' ' 

Alice  determined  that  it  should  be  strictly 
tete-a-tete.  She  wrent  to  spend  the  after- 
noon with  Carrol's  sisters,  and  stayed  until 
she  thought  the  lovers  had  had  ample  time 
to  make  their  vows  and  arrange  their  wed- 
ding. 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  255 

There  was  a  little  pout  on  her  lips  as  she 
left  Carrol  outside  the  door,  and  slowly 
bent  her  steps  to  Eleanor's  private  parlor. 
She  was  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  be 
civil  to  her  cousin's  new  husband-elect,  and 
the  temptation  to  be  anything  else  was  very 
strong. 

"I  shall  be  dreadfully  in  the  way — his 
way,  I  mean — and  he  will  want  to  send  me 
out  of  the  room,  and  I  shall  not  go — no, 
not  if  I  fall  asleep  on  a  chair  looking  at 
him." 

With  this  decision,  the  most  amiable  she 
could  reach,  Alice  entered  the  parlor.  Blea- 
nor  was  alone,  and  there  was  a  pale,  angry 
look  on  her  face  Alice  could  not  under- 
stand. 

"Shut  the  door,  dear." 

"Alone?" 

"I  have  been  so  all  evening." 

"Have  you  quarreled  with  Mr.  Smith?" 

"Mr.  Smith  did  not  call." 

"Not  come!" 

"Nor  yet  sent  any  apology." 

The  two  women  sat  looking  into  each 
other's  faces  a  few  moments,  both  white 
and  silent. 

"What  will  you  do,  Eleanor?" 

"Nothing." 

"But  he  may  be  sick,  or  he  may  not 
have  got  your  letter.  Such  queer  mistakes 
do  happen." 


256  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

1 '  Parker  took  it  to  his  hotel ;  the  clerk 
•said  he  was  still  in  his  room;  it  was  sent  to 
him  in  Parker's  sight  and  hearing.  There 
is  not  any  doubt  but  that  he  received  it. ' ' 

"Well,  suppose  he  did  not.  Still,  if  he 
really  cares  for  you,  he  is  hardly  likely  to 
take  j'our  supposed  silence  for  an  absolute 
refusal.  I  have  said  'No'  to  Carrol  a  dozen 
times,  and  he  won't  stay  'noed. '  Mr. 
Smith  will  be  sure  to  ask  for  a  personal  in- 
terview. ' ' 

Eleanor  answered  drearily:  ""I  suppose 
he  will  pay  me  that  respect;"  but  through 
this  little  effort  at  assertion  it  was  easy  to 
detect  the  white  feather  of  mistrust.  She 
half  suspected  the  touchy  self-esteem  of  Mr. 
Smith.  If  she  had  merely  been  guilty  of  a 
breach  of  good  manners  toward  him,  she 
knew  that  he  would  deeply  resent  it ;  how, 
then,  when  she  had — however  innocently — 
given  him  the  keenest  personal  slight? 

Still  she  wished  to  accept  Alice's  cheerful 
view  of  the  affair,  and  what  is  heartily 
wished  is  half  accomplished.  Ere  she  fell 
asleep  she  had  quite  decided  that  her  lover 
would  call  the  following  day,  and  her 
thoughts  were  busy  with  the  pleasant 
amends  she  would  make  him  for  any  anxiety 
he  might  have  suffered. 

But  Mr.  Smith  did  not  call  the  following 
day,  nor  on  many  following  ones,  and  a 
casual  lady  visitor  destroyed  Eleanor's  last 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  257 

hope  that  he  would  ever  call  again,  for, 
after  a  little  desultory  gossip,  she  said, 
"You  will  miss  Mr.  Smith  very  much  at 
your  receptions,  and  brother  Sam  says  he  is 
to  be  away  two  years. ' ' 

"So  long?"  asked  Eleanor,  with  perfect 
calmness. 

"I  believe  so.  I  thought  the  move  very 
sudden,  but  Sam  says  he  has  been  talking 
about  the  trip  for  six  months. ' ' 

"Really! — Alice,  dear,  won't  you  bring 
that  piece  of  Burslem  pottery  for  Mrs. 
Hollis  to  look  at?" 

So  the  wonderful  cup  and  saucer  were 
brought,  and  they  caused  a  diversion  so 
complete  that  Mr.  Smith  and  his  eccentric 
move  were  not  named  again  during  the 
visit.  Nor,  indeed,  much  after  it.  "What 
is  the  use  of  discussing  a  hopelessly  dis- 
agreeable subject?"  said  Eleanor  to  Alice's 
first  offer  of  sympathy.  To  tell  the  truth, 
the  mere  mention  of  the  subject  made  her 
cross,  for  young  women  of  the  finest  for- 
tunes do  not  necessarily  possess  the  finest 
tempers. 

Carrol's  next  visit  was  looked  for  with  a 
good  deal  of  interest.  Naturally  it  was 
thought  that  he  would  know  all  about  his 
friend '  s  singular  conduct.  But  he  prof essed 
to  be  as  much  puzzled  as  Alice.  "He  supposed 
it  was  something  about  Mrs.  Bethune ;  he  had 
always  told  Smith  not  to  take  a  pretty,  rich 


258  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

woman  like  her  into  his  calculations.  For 
his  part,  if  he  had  been  desirous  of  marry- 
ing an  heiress,  and  felt  that  he  had  a  gift 
that  way,  he  should  have  looked  out  a  rich 
German  girl ;  they  had  less  nonsense  about 
them,"  etc. 

That  was  how  the  affair  ended  as  far  as 
Eleanor  was  concerned.  Of  course  she 
suffered,  but  she  was  not  of  that  generation 
of  women  who  parade  their  suffering. 
Beautiful  and  self-respecting,  she  was, 
above  all,  endowed  with  physical  self-con- 
trol. Even  Alice  was  spared  the  hysterical 
sobbings  and  faintings  and  other  signs  of 
pathological  distress  common  to  weak 
women. 

Perhaps  she  was  more  silent  and  more 
irritable  than  usual,  but  Eleanor  Bethune's 
heartache  for  love  never  led  her  to  the 
smallest  social  impropriety.  Whatever  she 
suffered,  she  did  not  refuse  the  proper 
mixture  of  colors  in  her  hat,  or  neglect  her 
tithe  of  the  mint,  anise  and  cummin  due  to 
her  position. 

Eleanor's  reticence,  however,  had  this 
good  effect — it  compelled  Alice  to  talk 
Smith's  singular  behavior  over  with  Carrol ; 
and  somehow,  in  discussing  Smith,  they 
got  to  understand  each  other ;  so  that,  after 
all,  it  was  Alice's  and  not  Eleanor's  bridal 
shopping  that  was  to  do.  And  there  is 
something  very  assuaging  to  grief  in  this 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  259 

occupation.  Before  it  was  completed, 
Eleanor  had  quite  recovered  her  placid, 
sunshiny  temper. 

"Consolation,  thy  name  is  satin  and 
lace!"  said  Alice,  thankfully,  to  herself, 
as  she  saw  Eleanor  so  tired  and  happy 
about  the  wedding  finery. 

At  first  Alice  had  been  quite  sure  that 
she  would  go  to  Paris,  and  nowhere  else; 
but  Eleanor  noticed  that  in  less  than  a 
week  Carrol's  influence  was  paramount. 
"We  have  got  a  better  idea,  Eleanor — quite 
a  novel  one, ' '  she  said,  one  morning.  ' '  We 
are  going  to  make  our  bridal  trip  in  Car- 
rol's yacht!" 

"Whose  idea  is  that?" 

"Carrol's  and  mine  too,  of  course. 
Carrol  says  it  is  the  j oiliest  life.  You 
leave  all  your  cares  and  bills  on  shore  be- 
hind you.  You  issue  your  own  sailing 
orders,  and  sail  away  into  space  with  an 
easy  conscience." 

' '  But  I  thought  you  were  bent  on  a 
European  trip?" 

"The  yacht  will  be  ever  so  much  nicer. 
Think  of  the  nuisance  of  ticket-offices  and 
waiting-rooms  and  second-class  hotels  and 
troublesome  letters  waiting  for  you  at  your 
banker's,  and  disagreeable  paragraphs  in 
the  newspapers.  I  think  Carrol's  idea  is 
splendid. ' ' 

So  the  marriage  took  place  at  the  end  of 


260  Winter  Evening  J^ales. 

the  season,  and  Alice  and  Carrol  sailed 
happily  away  into  the  unknown.  Eleanor 
was  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  herself.  She 
wanted  to  go  to  Europe;  but  Mr.  Smith  had 
gone  there,  and  she  felt  sure  that  some  un- 
lucky accident  would  throw  them  together. 
It  was  not  her  nature  to  court  embarrass- 
ments; so  Europe  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. 

While  she  was  hesitating  she  called  one 
day  on  Celeste  Reid — a  beautiful  girl  who 
had  been  a  great  belle,  but  was  now  a  con- 
firmed invalid.  "I  am  going  to  try  the  air 
of  Colorado,  Mrs.  Bethune,"  she  said. 
' '  Papa  has  heard  wonderful  stories  about 
it.  Come  with  our  party.  We  shall  have 
a  special  car,  and  the  trip  will  at  least  have 
the  charm  of  novelty. ' ' 

"And  I  love  the  mountains,  Celeste.  I 
will  join  you  with  pleasure.  I  was  dread- 
ing the  old  routine  in  the  old  places;  but 
this  will  be  delightful." 

Thus  it  happened  that  one  evening  in  the 
following  August  Mrs.  Bethune  found  her- 
self slowly  strolling  down  the  principal 
street  in  Denver.  It  was  a  splendid  sunset, 
and  in  its  glory  the  Rocky  Mountains  rose 
like  Titanic  palaces  built  of  amethyst,  gold 
and  silver.  Suddenly  the  look  of  intense 
pleasure  on  her  face  was  changed  for  one  of 
wonder  and  annoyance.  It  had  become  her 
duty  in  a  moment  to  do  a  very  disagreeable 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  261 

thing;  but  duty  was  a  kind  of  religion  to 
Eleanor  Bethune;  she  never  thought  of 
shirking  it. 

So  she  immediately  inquired  her  way  to 
the  telegraph  office,  and  even  quickened 
her  steps  into  as  fast  a  walk  as  she  ever 
permitted  herself.  The  message  she  had 
to  send  was  a  peculiar  and  not  a  pleasant 
one.  At  first  she  thought  it  would  hardly 
be  possible  for  her  to  frame  it  in  such 
words  as  she  would  care  to  dictate  to 
strangers ;  but  she  firmly  settled  on  the  fol- 
lowing form : 
"Messrs.  Locke  &  Lord: 

''Tell  brother  Edward  that  Bloom  is  in 
Denver.  No  delay.  The  matter  is  of  the 
greatest  importance. ' ' 

When  she  had  dictated  the  message,  the 
clerk  said,  "Two  dollars,  madam."  But 
greatly  to  Eleanor's  annoyance  her  purse 
was  not  in  her  pocket,  and  she  could  not 
remember  whether  she  had  put  it  there  or 
not.  The  man  stood  looking  at  her  in  an 
expectant  way;  she  felt  that  any  delay 
about  the  message  might  be  fatal  to  its 
worth;  perplexity  and  uncertainty  ruled 
her  absolutely.  She  was  about  to  explain 
her  dilemma,  and  return  to  her  hotel  for 
money,  when  a  gentleman,  who  had  heard 
and  watched  the  whole  proceeding,  said : 

"Madam,  I  perceive  that  time  is  of  great 
importance  to  you,  and  that  you  have  lost 


262  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

your  ptfrjse;  allow  me  to  pay  for  the 
message.  You  can  return  the  money  if  you 
wish.  My  name  is  William  Smith.  I  am 
staying  at  the  'American.'  " 

"Thank  you,  sir.  The  message  is  of  the 
gravest  importance  to  my  brother.  I  grate- 
fully accept  your  offer. ' ' 

Further  knowledge  proved  Mr.  William 
Smith  to  be  a  New  York  capitalist  who 
was  slightly  known  to  three  of  the  gentle- 
men in  Eleanor's  party;  so  that  the  ac- 
quaintance began  so  informally  was  very 
speedily  afterward  inaugurated  with  all  the 
forms  and  ceremonies  good  society  demands. 
It  was  soon  possible,  too,  for  Eleanor  to 
explain  the  circumstances  which,  even  in 
her  code  of  strict  etiquette,  made  a  stranger's 
offer  of  money  for  the  hour  a  thing  to  be 
gratefully  accepted.  She  had  seen  in  the 
door  of  the  post-office  a  runaway  cashier  of 
her  brother's,  and  his  speedy  arrest  in- 
volved a  matter  of  at  least  forty  thousand 
dollars. 

This  Mr.  William  Smith  was  a  totally 
different  man  to  Eleanor's  last  lover — a 
bright,  energetic,  alert  business  man,  • 
decidedly  handsome  and  gentlemanly. 
Though  his  name  was  greatly  against  him 
in  Eleanor's  prejudices,  she  found  herself 
quite  unable  to  resist  the  cheery,  pleasant 
influence  he  carried  with  him.  And  it  was 
evident  from  the  very  first  day  of  their 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  263 

acquaintance  that  Mr.  William  Smith  had 
but  one  thought — the  winning  df  Eleanor 
Bethune. 

When  she  returned  to  New  York  in  the 
autumn  she  ventured  to  cast  up  her  accounts 
with  life,  and  she  was  rather  amazed  at  the 
result.  For  she  was  quite  aware  that  she 
was  in  love  with  this  William  Smith  in  a 
way  that  she  had  never  been  with  the  other. 
The  first  had  been  a  sentimental  ideal;  the 
second  was  a  genuine  case  of  sincere  and 
passionate  affection.  She  felt  that  the  de- 
sertion of  this  lover  would  be  a  grief  far 
beyond  the  power  of  satin  and  lace  to  cure. 

But  her  new  lover  had  never  a  disloyal 
thought  to  his  mistress,  and  his  love  trans- 
planted to  the  pleasant  places  of  New  York 
life,  seemed  to  find  its  native  air.  It  en- 
veloped Eleanor  now  like  a  glad  and 
heavenly  atmosphere;  she  was  so  happy 
that  she  dreaded  any  change;  it  seemed  to 
her  that  no  change  could  make  her  happier. 

But  if  good  is  good,  still  better  carries 
the  day,  and  Mr.  Smith  thought  marriage 
would  be  a  great  deal  better  than  love- 
making.  Eleanor  and  he  were  sitting  in 
the  fire-lit  parlor,  very  still  and  very  happy, 
when  he  whispered  this  opinion  to  her. 

' '  It  is  only  four  months  since  we  met, 
dear. ' ' 

"Only  four  months,  darling;  but  I  had 
been  dreaming  about  you  four  months 


264  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

before  that.  Let  me  hold  your  hands,  sweet, 
while  I  tell  you.  On  the  2oth  of  last  April 
I  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  for  Colorado 
to  look  after  the  Silver  Cliff  Mine.  My 
carriage  was  ordered,  and  I  was  waiting  at 
my  hotel  for  it.  A  servant  brought  me  a 
letter — the  dearest,  sweetest  little  letter — 
see,  here  it  is!"  and  this  William  Smith 
absolutely  laid  before  Eleanor  her  own 
pretty,  loving  reply  to  the  first  William 
Smith's  offer. 

Eleanor  looked  queerlyat  it,  and  smiled. 

"What  did  you  think,  dear?" 

"That  it  was  just  the  pleasantest  thing 
that  had  ever  happened  to  me.  It  was 
directed  to  Mr.  W.  Smith,  and  had  been 
given  into  my  hands.  I  was  not  going  to 
seek  up  any  other  W.  Smith." 

"But  you  must  have  been  sure  that  it 
was  not  intended  for  you,  and  you  did  not 
know  'Eleanor  Bethune. '  ' 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sweetheart;  it 
was  intended  for  me.  I  can  imagine  des- 
tiny standing  sarcastically  by  your  side, 
and  watching  you  send  the  letter  to  one  W. 
Smith  when  she  intended  it  for  another  W. 
Smith.  Eleanor  Bethune  I  meant  to  know 
just  as  soon  as  possible.  I  was  coming  back 
to  New  York  to  look  for  you. ' ' 

"And,  instead,  she  went  to  you  in  Colo- 
rado. ' ' 

"Only  think  of  that!     Why,  love,  when 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  265 

that  blessed  telegraph  clerk  said,  'Who- 
sends  this  message?'  and  you  said,  'Mrs. 
Eleanor  Bethune, '  I  wanted  to  fling  my  hat 
to  the  sky.  I  did  not  lose  my  head  as 
badly  when  they  found  that  new  lead  in 
the  Silver  Cliff." 

"Won't  you  give  me  that  letter,  and  let 
me  destroy  it,  William?  It  was  written  to» 
the  wrong  Smith." 

' '  It  was  written  to  the  wrong  Smith,  but 
it  was  given  to  the  right  Smith.  Still, 
Eleanor,  if  you  will  say  one  little  word  to 
me,  you  may  do  what  you  like  with  the 
letter." 

Then  Eleanor  whispered  the  word,  and 
the  blaze  of  the  burning  letter  made  a  little 
illumination  in  honor  of  their  betrothal 
kiss. 


266  Winter  Evening  Tales. 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  NEIL. 

Poverty  has  not  only  many  learned  dis- 
ciples, but  also  many  hidden  saints  and 
martyrs.  There  are  humble  tenements  that 
are  tabernacles,  and  desolate,  wretched 
rooms  that  are  the  quarries  of  the  Almighty 
— where  with  toil  and  weariness  and  suffer- 
ing the  souls  He  loves  are  being  prepared 
for  the  heavenly  temple. 

This  is  the  light  that  relieves  the  deep 
shadow  of  that  awful  cloud  of  poverty  which 
ever  hangs  over  this  rich  and  prosperous 
city.  I  have  been  within  that  cloud,  wet 
with  its  rain  of  tears,  chilled  with  its 
gloomy  darkness,  "made  free"  of  its  inner- 
most recesses;  therefore  I  speak  with  au- 
thority when  I  say  that  even  here  a  little 
child  may  walk  and  not  stumble,  if  Jesus 
lead  the  way  or  hold  the  hand. 

Nay,  but  children  walk  where  strong  men 
fall  down,  and  young  maidens  enter  the 
kingdom  while  yet  their  parents  are  stum- 
bling where  no  light  from  the  Golden  City 
and  "the  Land  very  far  off"  reaches  them. 
Last  winter  I  became  very  much  interested 
in  such  a  case.  I  was  going  to  write 
"Poor  Mary  Neil!"  but  that  would  have 
been  the  strangest  misnomer.  Happy  Mary 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  267 

Neil!  rises  impetuously  from  my  heart  to 
contradict  my  pen. 

And  yet  when  I  first  became  acquainted 
with  her  condition,  she  was  "poor"  in 
every  bitter  sense  of  the  word. 

A  drunkard's  eldest  daughter,  "the  child 
of  misery  baptized  with  tears,"  what  had 
her  seventeen  years  been  but  sad  and  evil 
ones?  Cold  and  hunger,  cares  and  labors 
far  beyond  her  strength  sowed  the  seeds  of 
early  death.  For  two  years  she  struggled 
amid  such  suffering  as  dying  lungs  entail 
to  help  her  mother  and  younger  brothers 
and  sisters,  but  at  last  she  was  compelled 
to  make  her  bed  amid  sorrow  and  suffering 
which  she  could  no  longer  assuage  by  her 
helpful  hands  and  gentle  words. 

Her  religious  education  had  not  been 
quite  neglected,  and  she  dimly  compre- 
hended that  through  the  narrow  valley 
which  lay  between  Time  and  Eternity  she 
would  need  a  surer  and  more  infallible 
guide  than  her  own  sadly  precocious  intel- 
lect. Then  God  sent  her  just  the  help  she 
needed — a  tender,  pitiful,  hopeful  woman 
full  of  the  love  of  Jesus. 

Souls  ripen  quickly  in  the  atmosphere  of 
the  Border  Land,  and  very  soon  Mary  had 
learned  how  to  walk  without  fearing  any 
evil.  Certain  passages  of  Scripture  burned 
with  a  supernatural  glory,  and  made  the 
darkness  light;  and  there  were  also  a  few 


268  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

hymns  which  struck  the  finest  chords  in 
her  heart,  and 

"  'Mid  days  of  keenest  anguish 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Filled  all  her  soul  with  music 
Of  wondrous  melodies. ' ' 

As  she  neared  the  deeper  darkness  of 
death,  this  was  especially  remarkable  of 
that  extraordinary  hymn  called  "The  L,ight 
of  Death,"  by  Dr.  Faber.  From  the  first 
it  had  fascinated  her.  ' '  Has  he  been  here 
that  he  knows  just  how  it  feels?"  she 
asked,  wonderingly,  and  then  solemnly  re- 
peated : 

"Saviour,  what  means  this  breadth  of  death, 

This  space  before  me  lying ; 
These  deeps  where  life  so  lingereth, 

This  difficulty  of  dying? 
So  many  turns  abrupt  and  rude, 

Such  ever-shifting  grounds, 
Such  strangely  peopled  solitudes, 

Such  strangely  silent  sounds?" 

Her  sufferings  were  very  great,  and 
sometimes  the  physical  depression  exerted 
a  definable  influence  on  her  spiritual  state. 
Still  she  never  lost  her  consciousness  of  the 
presence  of  her  Guide  and  Saviour,  and 
once,  in  the  exhaustion  of  a  severe  par- 
oxysm, she  murmured  two  lines  from  the 
same  grand  hymn : 

1 '  Deeper !  dark,  dark,  but  yet  I  follow : 
Tighten,  dear  Ix>rd,  thy  clasp." 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  269 

Ah!  there  was  something  touching  and 
noble  beyond  all  words,  in  this  complete 
reliance  and  perfect  trust ;  and  it  never  again 
wavered. 

"Is  it  very  dark,  Mary  dear?"  her  friend 
said  one  morning,  the  last  for  her  on  earth. 

' '  Too  dark  to  see, ' '  she  whispered,  ' '  but 
I  can  go  on  if  Christ  will  hold  my  hand. ' ' 

After  this  a  great  solemnity  shaded  her 
face;  she  lost  all  consciousness  of  this 
world.  The  frail,  shadowy  little  body  lay 
gray  and  passive,  while  that  greatest  of  all 
struggles  was  going  on — the  struggle  of  the 
Eternal  out  of  Time ;  but  her  lips  moved 
incessantly,  and  occasionally  some  speech 
of  earth  told  the  anxious  watchers  how  hard 
the  conflict  was.  For  instance,  toward  sun- 
down she  said  in  a  voice  strangely  solemn 
and  anxious: 

"  Whom  are  we  trying  to  avoid? 

From  whom,  Lord,  must  we  hide? 
Oh !  can  the  dying  be  decoyed, 

With  the  Saviour  by  his  side?" 

"L,oose  sands  and  all  things  sinking!" 
* '  Are  we  near  eternity  ?"  * '  Can  I  fall  from 
Thee  even  now  ?' '  and  ejaculations  of  similar 
kind,  showed  that  the  spiritual  struggle 
was  a  very  palpable  one  to  her ;  but  it  ended 
in  a  great  calm.  For  two  hours  she  lay  in 
a  peace  that  passeth  understanding,  and 
you  would  have  said  that  she  was  dead  but 


270  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

for  a  vague  look  of  expectancy  in  the 
happy,  restful  face.  Then  suddenly  there 
was  a  lightening  of  the  whole  countenance ; 
she  stretched  out  her  arms  to  meet  the 
messenger  of  the  King,  and  entered  heaven 
with  this  prayer  on  her  lips: 

"Both  hands,  dear  Lord,  both  hands." 

Don't  doubt  but  she  got  them;  their 
mighty  strength  lifted  her  over  the  dark 
river  almost  dry  shod. 

4 '  Rests  she  not  well  whose  pilgrim  staff  and  shoon 
Lie  in  her  tent — for  on  the  golden  street 

She  walks  and  stumbles  not  on  roads  star  strewn 
With  her  unsandalled  feet?  " 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          271 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  KURSTON  CHACE. 

Into  the  usual  stillness  of  Kurston  Chace 
a  strange  bustle  and  excitement  had  come — 
the  master  was  returning  with  a  young 
bride,  whom  report  spoke  of  as  ' '  bewitch- 
ingly  beautiful."  It  was  easy  to  believe 
report  in  this  case,  for  there  must  have  been 
some  strong  inducement  to  make  Frederick 
Kurston  wed  in  his  sixtieth  year  a  woman 
barely  twenty.  It  was  not  money;  Mr. 
Kurston  had  plenty  of  money,  and  he  was 
neither  ambitious  nor  avaricious;  besides, 
the  woman  he  had  chosen  was  both  poor 
and  extravagant. 

For  once  report  was  correct.  Clementina 
Gray,  in  tarlatans  and  flowers,  had  been  a 
great  beauty;  and  Clementina  Kurston,  in 
silks  and  diamonds,  was  a  woman  dedicated 
by  Nature  for  conquest. 

It  was  Clementina's  beauty  that  had  pre- 
vailed over  the  love-hardened  heart  of  the 
gay  old  gallant,  who  had  escaped  the  dan- 
gers of  forty  seasons  of  flirtation.  He  was 
entangled  in  the  meshes  of  her  golden  hair, 
fascinated  by  the  spell  of  her  love-languid 
eyes,  her  mouth  like  a  sad,  heavy  rose,  her 
faultless  form  and  her  superb  manners. 
He  was  blind  to  all  her  faults;  deaf  to  all 


272  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

his  friends — in  the  glamour  of  her  enchant- 
ments he  submitted  to  her  implicitly,  even 
while  both  his  reason  and  his  sense  of  other 
obligations  pleaded  for  recognition. 

Clementina  had  not  won  him  very  easily ; 
the  summer  was  quite  over,  nearly  all  the 
visitors  at  the  stylish  little  watering-place 
had  departed,  the  mornings  and  evenings 
were  chilly,  every  day  Mr.  Kurston  spoke 
of  his  departure,  and  she  herself  was  watch- 
ing her  maid  pack  her  trunks,  and  in  no 
very  amiable  temper  contemplating  defeat, 
when  the  reward  of  her  seductive  attentions 
came. 

"Mr.  Kurston  entreated  the  favor  of  an 
interview. ' ' 

She  gladly  accorded  it ;  she  robed  herself 
with  subtle  skill;  she  made  herself  mar- 
velous. 

" Mother,"  she  said,  as  she  left  her  dress- 
ing-room, "you  will  have  a  headache.  I 
shall  excuse  you.  I  can  manage  this  busi- 
ness best  alone. ' ' 

In  an  hour  she  came  back  triumphant. 
She  put  her  feet  on  the  fender,  and  sat 
down  before  the  cheerful  blaze  to  ' '  talk  it 
over. ' ' 

"It  is  ail  right,  mother.  Good-by  to  our 
miserable  shifts  and  shabby-genteel  lodg- 
ings and  turned  dresses.  He  will  settle 
Kurston  Chace  and  all  he  has  upon  me,  and 
we  are  to  be  married  next  month. ' ' 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  273 

"Impossible,  Tina!  No  modiste  in  the 
world  could  get  the  things  that  are  abso- 
lutely necessary  ready  in  that  time. ' ' 

''Everything  is  possible  in  New  York — 
if  you  have  money — and  Uncle  Gray- 
will  be  ready  enough  to  buy  my  marriage 
clothes.  Besides,  I  am  going  to  run  no 
risks.  If  he  should  die,  nothing  on  earth 
could  console  me  for  the  trouble  I  have  had 
with  him,  but  the  fact  of  being  his  widow. 
There  is  no  sentiment  in  the  affair,  and 
the  sooner  one  gets  to  ordering  dinners  and 
running  up  bills,  the  better. ' ' 

"Poor  Philip  Lee!'' 

"Mother,  why  did  you  mention  him? 
Of  course  he  will  be  angry,  and  call  me  all 
kinds  of  unpleasant  names;  but  if  he  has  a 
particle  of  common  sense  he  must  see  that 
it  was  impossible  for  me  to  marry  a  poor 
lawyer — especially  when  I  had  such  a  much 
better  offer.  I  suppose  he  will  be  here  to- 
night. You  must  see  him,  mother,  and 
explain  things  as  pleasantly  as  possible. 
It  would  scarcely  be  proper  for  me,  as  Mr. 
Kurston's  affianced  wife,  to  listen  to  all  the 
ravings  and  protestations  he  is  sure  to  in- 
dulge in. " 

In  this  supposition  Clementina  was  mis- 
taken. Philip  I^ee  took  the  news  of  her 
engagement  to  his  wealthy  rival  with 
blank  calmness  and  a  civil  wish  for  her 
happiness.  He  made  a  stay  of  conrentional 
i* 


274  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

propriety,  and  said  all  the  usual  polite 
platitudes,  and  then  went  away  without 
any  evidence  of  the  deep  suffering  and 
mortification  he  felt. 

This  was  Clementina's  first  drop  of  bit- 
terness in  her  cup  of  success.  She  ques- 
tioned her  mother  closely  as  to  how  he 
looked,  and  what  he  said.  It  did  not  please 
her  that,  instead  of  bemoaning  his  own 
loss,  he  should  be  feeling  a  contempt  for 
her  duplicity — that  he  should  use  her  to 
cure  his  passion,  when  she  meant  to  wound 
him  still  deeper.  She  felt  at  moments  as  if 
she  could  give  up  for  Philip  Lee  the  wealth 
and  position  she  had  so  hardly  won,  only 
she  knew  him  well  enough  to  understand 
that  henceforward  she  could  not  easily  de- 
ceive him  again. 

It  was  pleasant  to  return  to  New  York 
this  fall;  the  news  of  the  engagement 
opened  everyone's  heart  and  home.  Con- 
gratulations came  from  every  quarter;  even 
Uncle  Gray  praised  the  girl  who  had  done 
so  well  for  herself,  and  signified  his  ap- 
proval by  a  handsome  check. 

The  course  of  this  love  ran  smooth 
enough,  and  one  fine  morning  in  October, 
Grace  Church  saw  a  splendid  wedding. 
Henceforward  Clementina  Kurston  was  a 
woman  to  be  courted  instead  of  patronized, 
and  many  a  woman  who  had  spoken  lightly 
of  her  beauty  and  qualities,  was  made  to 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          275 

acknowledge  with  an  envious  pang  that  she 
had  distanced  them. 

This  was  her  first  reward,  and  she  did 
not  stint  herself  in  extorting  it.  To  tell 
the  truth,  Clementina  had  many  a  bitter 
score  of  this  kind  to  pay  off;  for,  as  she 
said  in  extenuation,  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  allow  herself  to  be  in  debt  to  her 
self-respect. 

Well,  the  wedding  was  over.  She  had 
abundantly  gratified  her  taste  for  splendor ; 
she  had  smiled  on  those  on  whom  she  willed 
to  smile;  she  had  treated  herself  extrav- 
agantly to  the  dangerous  pleasure  of  social 
revenge;  she  was  now  anxious  to  go  and 
take  possession  of  her  home,  which  had  the 
reputation  of  being  one  of  the  oldest  and 
handsomest  in  the  country. 

Mr.  Kurston,  hitherto,  had  been  intoxi- 
cated with  love,  and  not  a  little  flattered  by 
the  brilliant  position  which  his  wife  had  at 
once  claimed.  Now  that  she  was  his  wife, 
it  amused  him  to  see  her  order  and  patron- 
ize and  dispense  with  all  that  royal  pre- 
rogative which  belongs  to  beauty,  supported 
by  wealth  and  position. 

Into  his  great  happiness  he  had  suffered 
no  doubt,  no  fear  of  the  future,  to  come; 
but,  as  the  day  approached  for  their  de- 
parture for  Kurston  Chace,  he  grew  singu- 
larly restless  and  uneasy. 

For,  much  as  he  loved  and  obeyed  the 


276  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

woman  whom  he  called  "wife,"  there  was 
another  woman  at  Kurston  whom  he  called 
4< daughter,"  that  he  loved  quite  as  dearly, 
in  a  different  way.  In  fact,  of  his  daugh- 
ter, Athel  Kurston,  he  stood  just  a  little  bit 
in  fear,  and  she  had  ruled  the  household  at 
the  Chace  for  many  years  as  absolute  mis- 
tress. 

No  one  knew  anything  of  her  mother; 
he  had  brought  her  to  her  present  home 
when  only  five  years  old,  after  a  long  stay 
on  the  Continent.  A  strange  woman,  wear- 
ing the  dress  of  a  Sclavonic  peasant,  came 
with  the  child  as  nurse ;  but  she  had  never 
learnt  to  speak  English,  and  had  now  been 
many  years  dead. 

Athel  knew  nothing  of  her  mother,  and 
her  early  attempts  to  question  her  father 
concerning  her  had  been  so  peremptorily 
rebuffed  that  she  had  long  ago  ceased  to 
indulge  in  any  curiosity  regarding  her. 
However — though  she  knew  it  not — no  one 
regarded  her  as  Mr.  Kurston 's  heir;  indeed, 
nothing  in  her  father's  conduct  sanctioned 
such  a  conclusion.  True,  he  loved  her 
dearly,  and  had  spared  no  pains  in  her  edu- 
cation ;  but  he  never  took  her  with  him 
into  the  world,  and,  except  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Chace,  her  very  existence  was 
not  known  of. 

She  was  as  old  as  his  new  wife,  willful, 
proud,  accustomed  to  rule,  not  likely  to 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          277 

obey.  He  had  said  nothing  to  Clementina 
of  her  existence;  he  had  said  nothing  to 
his  daughter  of  his  marriage ;  and  now  both 
facts  could  no  longer  be  concealed. 

But  Frederick  Kurston  had  all  his  life 
trusted  to  circumstances,  and  he  was  rather 
disposed,  in  this  matter,  to  let  the  women 
settle  affairs  between  them  without  trou- 
bling himself  to  enter  into  explanations 
with  either  of  them.  So,  to  Athel  he  wrote 
a  tender  little  note,  assuming  that  she 
would  be  delighted  to  hear  of  his  marriage, 
as  it  promised  her  a  pleasant  companion, 
and  directing  her  to  have  all  possible  ar- 
rangements made  to  add  to  the  beauty  and 
comfort  of  the  house. 

To  Mrs.  Kurston  he  said  nothing.  The 
elegantly  dressed  young  lady  who  met  her 
with  a  curious  and  rather  constrained  wel- 
come was  to  her  a  genuine  surprise.  Her 
air  of  authority  and  rich  dress  precluded 
the  idea  of  a  dependent ;  Mr.  Kurston  had 
kissed  her  lovingly,  the  servants  obeyed 
her.  But  she  was  far  too  prudent  to  make 
inquiries  on  unknown  ground;  she  dis- 
appeared, with  her  maid,  on  the  plea  of 
weariness,  and  from  the  vantage-ground  of 
her  retirement  sent  Felicite  to  take  observa- 
tions. 

The  little  French  maid  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  arriving  at  the  truth,  and  Mrs. 
Kurston,  not  unjustly  angry,  entered  the 


278  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

drawing-room  fully  prepared  to  defend  her 
rights. 

"Who  was  that  young  person,  Frederick, 
dear,  that  I  saw  when  we  arrived?" 

This  question  in  the  very  sweetest  tone, 
and  with  that  caressing  manner  she  had 
always  found  omnipotent. 

' '  That  young  person  is  Miss  Athel  Kurs- 
ton,  Clementina." 

This  answer  in  the  very  decided,  and  yet 
nervous,  manner  people  on  the  defensive 
generally  assume. 

1 '  Miss  Kurston  ?  Your  sister,  Frederick  ?' 

' '  No ;  my  daughter,  Clementina. ' ' 

"But  you  were  never  married  before?" 

' '  So  people  say. ' ' 

' '  Then,  do  you  really  expect  me  to  live 
in  the  same  house  with  a  person  of — ' ' 

"I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not — 
that  is,  if  you  live  in  the  same  house  with 
me." 

A  passionate  burst  of  tears,  an  utter 
abandonment  of  distress,  and  the  infatuated 
husband  was  willing  to  promise  anything 
— everything — that  his  charmer  demanded 
— that  is,  for  the  time;  for  Athel  Kurston 's 
influence  was  really  stronger  than  her  step- 
mother's, and  the  promises  extorted  from 
his  lower  passions  were  indefinitely  post- 
poned by  his  nobler  feelings. 

A  divided  household  is  always  a  miser- 
able one;  but  the  chief  sufferer  here  was 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  279 

Mr.  Kurston,  and  Athel,  who  loved  him 
with  a  sincere  and  profound  affection,  de- 
termined to  submit  to  circumstances  for  his 
sake. 

One  morning,  he  found  on  his  table  a 
letter  from  her  stating  that,  to  procure  him 
peace,  she  had  left  a  home  that  would  be 
ever  dear  to  her,  assuring  him  that  she  had 
secured  a  comfortable  and  respectable 
asylum;  but  earnestly  entreating  that  he 
would  make  no  inquiries  about  her,  as  she 
had  changed  her  name,  and  would  not  be 
discovered  without  causing  a  degree  of 
gossip  and  evil-speaking  injurious  to  both 
himself  and  her. 

This  letter  completely  broke  the  power 
of  Clementina  over  her  husband.  He  as- 
serted at  once  his  authority,  and  insisted  - 
on  returning  immediately  to  New  York, 
where  he  thought  it  likely  Athel  had  gone, 
and  where,  at  any  rate,  he  could  find  suit- 
able persons  to  aid  him  in  his  search  for 
her — a  search  which  was  henceforth  the 
chief  object  of  his  life. 

A  splendid  house  was  taken,  and  Mrs. 
Kurston  at  once  assumed  the  position  of  a 
leader  in  the  world  of  fashion.  Greatly  to 
her  satisfaction,  Philip  Lee  was  a  favorite  in 
the  exclusive  circle  in  which  she  moved,  and 
she  speedily  began  the  pretty,  penitent,  de- 
jected r61e  which  she  judged  would  be  most 
effective  with  him.  But,  though  she  would 


280  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

not  see  it,  Philip  I^ee  was  proof  against  all 
her  blandishments.  He  was  not  the  man  to  be 
deluded  twice  by  the  same  false  woman ;  he 
was  a  man  of  honor,  and  detested  the  social 
ethics  which  scoffed  at  humanity's  holiest 
tie;  and  he  was  deeply  in  love  with  a 
woman  who  was  the  very  antipodes  of  the 
married  siren. 

Yet  he  visited  frequently  at  the  Kurston 
mansion,  and  became  a  great  favorite,  and 
finally  the  friend  and  confidant  of  its  mas- 
ter. Gradually,  as  month  after  month 
passed,  the  business  of  the  Kurston  estate 
came  into  his  hands,  and  he  could  have 
told,  to  the  fraction  of  a  dollar,  the  exact 
sum  for  which  Clementina  Gray  sold  her- 
self. 

Two  years  passed  away.  There  was  no 
longer  on  Clementina's  part,  any  pretence 
of  affection  for  her  husband ;  she  went  her 
own  way,  and  devoted  herself  to  her  own 
Interests  and  amusements.  He  wearied 
with  a  hopeless  search  and  anxiety  that 
found  no  relief,  aged  very  rapidly,  and  be- 
came subject  to  serious  attacks  of  illness, 
any  one  of  which  might  deprive  him  of  life. 

His  wife  now  regretted  that  she  had 
married  so  hastily ;  the  settlements  promised 
liad  been  delayed ;  she  had  trusted  to  her 
influence  to  obtain  more  as  his  wife  than 
as  his  betrothed.  She  had  not  known  of 
a  counter -influence,  and  she  had  not 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          281 

calculated  that  the  effort  of  a  life-long  decep- 
tion might  be  too  much  for  her.  Quarrels 
had  arisen  in  the  very  beginning  of  their  life 
at  Kurston,  the  disappearance  of  Athel  had 
never  been  forgiven,  and  now  Mrs.  Kurston 
became  violently  angry  if  the  settlement 
and  disposing  of  his  property  was  named. 

One  night,  in  the  middle  of  the  third 
winter  after  Athel's  disappearance,  Philip 
lyee  called  with  an  important  lease  for  Mr. 
Kurston  to  sign.  He  found  him  alone,  and 
strangely  moved  and  sorrowful.  He  signed 
the  papers  as  Philip  directed  him,  and  then 
requested  him  to  lock  the  door  and  sit 
down. 

"I  am  going,"  he  said,  "to  confide  to 
you,  Philip  Lee,  a  sacred  trust.  I  do  not 
think  I  shall  live  long,  and  I  leave  a  duty 
unfulfilled  that  makes  to  me  the  bitterness 
of  death.  I  have  a  daughter — the  lawful 
heiress  of  the  Kurston  lands — whom  my 
wife  drove,  by  subtle  and  persistent 
cruelty,  from  her  home.  By  no  means 
have  I  been  able  to  discover  her;  but  you 
must  continue  the  search,  and  see  her  put 
in  possession  of  her  rights. ' ' 

' '  But  what  proofs,  sir,  can  you  give  me 
in  order  to  establish  them?" 

"They  are  all  in  this  box — everything 
that  is  necessary.  Take  it  with  you  to 
your  office  to-night.  Her  mother — ah,  me, 
how  I  loved  her—  v,7as  a  Polish  lady  of  good 


282  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

family;  but  I  have  neither  time  nor  in- 
clination now  to  explain  to  you,  or  to  ex- 
cuse myself  for  the  paltry  vanities  which 
induced  me  to  conceal  my  marriage.  In 
those  days  I  cared  so  much  for  what  society 
said  that  I  never  listened  to  the  voice  of 
my  heart  or  my  conscience.  I  hope,  I 
trust,  I  may  still  right  both  the  dead  and 
the  living!" 

Mr.  Kurston's  presentiment  of  death  was 
no  delusive  one;  he  sank  graduall}7  during 
the  following  week,  and  died — his  last 
word,  "Remember!"  being  addressed,  with 
all  the  strong  beseeching  of  a  dying  injunc- 
tion, to  Philip  Lee. 

A  free  woman,  and  a  rich  one,  Mrs.  Kurs- 
ton  turned  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  senti- 
mental woman  to  her  first  and — as  she  chose 
to  consider  it — her  only  true  affection.  She 
was  now  in  a  position  to  woo  the  poor 
lawyer,  dependent  in  a  great  measure  on 
her  continuing  to  him  the  management  of 
the  Kurston  property. 

Business  brought  them  continually  to- 
gether, and  it  was  neither  possible  nor 
prudent  for  him  to  always  reject  the  atten- 
tions she  offered.  The  world  began  to 
freely  connect  their  names,  and  it  was  with 
much  difficulty  that  he  could  convince  even 
his  most  intimate  friends  of  his  indifference 
to  the  rich  and  beautiful  widow. 

He    found    himself,    indeed,     becoming 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          283 

gradually  entangled  in  a  net  of  circum- 
stances it  would  soon  be  difficult  to  get 
honorably  out  of. 

The  widow  received  him  at  every  visit 
more  like  a  lover,  and  less  like  a  lawyer; 
men  congratulated  or  envied  him,  women 
tacitly  assumed  his  engagement.  There 
was  but  one  way  to  free  himself  from  the 
toils  the  artful  widow  was  encompassing 
him  with — he  must  marry  some  one  else. 

But  whom?  The  only  girl  he  loved  was 
poor,  and  had  already  refused  him;  yet  he 
was  sure  she  loved  him,  and  something  bid 
him  try  again.  He  had  half  a  mind  to  do 
so,  and  "half  a  mind"  in  love  is  quite 
enough  to  begin  with. 

So  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  to  his  sis- 
ter's house.  He  knew  she  was  out  driv- 
ing— had  seen  her  pass  five  minutes  before 
on  her  way  to  the  park.  Then  what  did  he 
go  there  for?  Because  he  judged  from  ex- 
perience, that  at  this  hour  lovely  Pauline 
Alexes,  governess  to  his  sister's  daughters, 
was  at  home  and  alone. 

He  was  not  wrong;  she  came  into  the 
parlor  by  one  door  as  he  entered  it  by  the 
other.  The  coincidence  was  auspicious, 
and  he  warmly  pressed  his  suit,  pouring 
into  Pauline's  ears  such  a  confused  account 
of  his  feelings  and  his  affairs  as  only  love 
could  disentangle  and  understand. 

"But,   Philip,"   said    Pauline,  "do   you 


284  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

mean  to  say  that  this  Mrs.  Kurston  makes 
love  to  you  ?  Is  she  not  a  married  woman, 
and  her  husband  your  best  friend  and 
patron?" 

"Mr.  Kurston,  Pauline  darling,  is  dead !" 

"Dead!  dead!  Oh,  Philip!  Oh,  my 
father!  my  father!"  And  the  poor  girl 
threw  herself,  with  passionate  sobbings, 
among  the  cushions  of  the  sofa. 

This  was  a  revelation.  Here,  in  Pauline 
Alexes,  the  girl  he  had  fondly  loved  for 
nearly  three  years,  Philip  found  the  long- 
sought  heiress  of  Kurston  Chace ! 

Bitter,  indeed,  was  her  grief  when  she 
learned  how  sorrowfully  her  father  had 
sought  her;  but  she  was  scarcely  to  be 
blamed  for  not  knowing  of,  and  responding 
to,  his  late  repentance  of  the  life-long 
wrong  he  had  done  her.  For  Philip's  sister 
moved  far  outside  the  narrow  and  supreme 
circle  of  the  Kurstons. 

She  had  hidden  her  identity  in  her 
mother's  maiden  name — the  only  thing  she 
knew  of  her  mother.  She  had  never  seen 
her  father  since  her  flight  from  her  home 
but  in  public,  accompanied  by  his  wife; 
she  had  no  reason  to  suppose  the  influence 
of  that  wife  any  weaker;  she  had  been 
made,  by  cruel  innuendoes,  to  doubt  both 
the  right  and  the  inclination  of  her  father 
to  protect  her. 

It  now  became  Philip's  duty  to  acquaint 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  285 

the  second  Mrs.  Kurston  with  her  true 
position,  and  to  take  the  necessary  steps  to- 
reinstate  Athel  Kurston  in  her  rights. 

Of  course,  he  had  to  bear  many  unkind 
suspicions — even  his  friends  believed  him 
to  have  been  cognizant  all  the  time  of  the 
identity  of  Pauline  Alexes  with  Athel 
Kurston — and  he  was  complimented  on  his 
cleverness  in  securing  the  property,  with 
the  daughter,  instead  of  the  widow,  for  an 
incumbrance.  But  those  may  laugh  who 
win,  and  these  things  scarcely  touched  the 
happiness  of  Philip  and  Athel. 

As  for  Mrs.  Kurston  she  made  a  still 
more  brilliant  marriage,  and  gave  up  the 
Kurston  estate  with  an  ostentatious  indif- 
ference. ' '  She  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  it ;  it 
had  brought  her  nothing  but  sorrow  and 
disappointment,"  etc. 

But  from  the  heights  of  her  social  auto- 
cracy, clothed  in  Worth's  greatest  inspira- 
tions, wearing  priceless  lace  and  jewels, 
dwelling  in  unrivalled  splendor,  she  looked 
with  regret  on  the  man  whom  she  had  re- 
jected for  his  poverty. 

She  saw  him  grow  to  be  the  pride  of  his 
State  and  the  honor  of  his  country.  Love- 
less and  childless,  she  saw  his  boys  and 
girls  cling  to  the  woman  she  hated  as  their 
" mother,"  and  knew  that  they  filled  with 
light  and  love  the  grand  old  home  for  which 
she  had  first  of  all  sacrificed  her  affection 
and  her  womanhood. 


286  Winter  Evening  Tales. 


"ONLY  THIS  ONCE." 

Over  the  solemn  mountains  and  the  misty 
moorlands  the  chill  spring  night  was  fall- 
ing. David  Scott,  master  shepherd  for 
MacAllister,  of  Allister,  thought  of  his 
ewes  and  lambs,  pulled  his  Scotch  bonnet 
over  his  brows,  and  taking  his  staff  in  his 
hand,  turned  his  face  to  the  hills. 

David  Scott  was  a  mystic  in  his  own 
way;  the  mountains  were  to  him  "temples 
not  made  with  hands, ' '  and  in  them  he  had 
seen  and  heard  wonderful  things.  Years 
of  silent  communion  with  nature  had  made 
him  love  her  in  all  her  moods,  and  he  pas- 
sionately believed  in  God. 

The  fold  was  far  up  the  mountains,  but 
the  sheep  knew  the  shepherd's  voice,  and 
the  peculiar  bark  of  his  dog ;  they  answered 
them  gladly,  and  were  soon  safely  and 
warmly  housed.  Then  David  and  Keeper 
slowly  took  their  way  homeward,  for  the 
steep,  rocky  hills  were  not  easy  walking 
for  an  old  man  in  the  late  gloaming. 

Passing  a  wild  cairn  of  immense  stones, 
Keeper  suddenly  began  to  bark  furiously, 
and  a  tall,  slight  figure  leaped  from  their 
shelter,  raised  a  stick,  and  would  have 
struck  the  dog  if  David  had  not  called  out, 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  287 

' '  Never  strie  a  sheep-dog,  mon !  The  bestie 
willna  harm  ye." 

The  stranger  then  came  forward ;  asked 
David  if  there  was  any  cottage  near  where 
he  could  rest  all  night,  said  that  he  had 
come  out  for  a  day's  fishing,  had  got  sepa- 
rated from  his  companions,  lost  his  way  and 
was  hungry  and  worn  out. 

David  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face 
and  read  aright  the  nervous  manner  and 
assumed  indifference.  However,  hospi- 
tality is  a  sacred  tradition  among  Scotch 
mountaineers;  whoever,  or  whatever  the 
young  man  was,  David  acknowledged  his 
weariness  and  hunger  as  sufficient  claim 
upon  his  oaten  cake  and  his  embers. 

It  was  evident  in  a  few  moments  that 
Mr.  Semple  was  not  used  to  the  hills. 
David's  long,  firm  walk  was  beyond  the 
young  man's  efforts;  he  stumbled  frequently 
in  the  descent,  the  springy  step  necessary 
when  they  came  to  the  heather  distressed 
him ;  he  was  almost  afraid  of  the  gullies 
David  took  without  a  thought.  These 
things  the  old  man  noted,  and  they 
weighed  far  more  with  him  than  all  the 
boastful  tongue  could  say. 

The  cottage  was  soon  reached — a  very 
humble  one — only  "a  but  and  a  ben,"  with 
small  windows,  and  a  thatched  roof;  but 
Scotland  has  reared  great  men  in  such  cot- 
tages, and  no  one  could  say  that  it  was  not 


288  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

clean  and  cheerful.  The  fire  burnt  brightly 
upon  the  white  hearthstone,  and  a  little 
round  deal  table  stood  before  it.  Upon  this 
table  were  oaten  cakes  and  Ayreshire  cheese 
and  new  milk,  and  by  its  side  sat  a  young 
man  reading. 

"Archie,  here  is  a  strange  gentleman  I 
found  up  at  Donald's  cairn." 

The  two  youths  exchanged  looks  and 
disliked  each  other.  Yet  Archie  Scott 
rose,  laid  aside  his  book,  and  courteously 
offered  his  seat  by  the  fire.  The  stranger 
took  it,  eat  heartily  of  the  simple  meal, 
joined  decently  in  their  solemn  worship, 
and  was  soon  fast  asleep  in  Archie's  bed. 
Then  the  old  man  and  his  son  sat  down  and 
curtly  exchanged  their  opinions. 

"I  don't  like  yon  lad,  fayther,  and  I  more 
than  distrust  his  being  aught  o'  a  gentle- 
man." 

David  smoked  steadily  a  few  minutes  ere 
lie  replied : 

"He's  eat  and  drank  and  knelt  wi'  us, 
Archie,  and  it's  nane  o'  our  duty  to  judge 
him." 

When  Archie  spoke  again  it  was  of  other 
matters. 

"Fayther,  I'm  sore  troubled  wi'  Mac- 
Allister's  accounts;  what  wi'  the  sheep 
bills  and  the  timber  and  the  kelp,  things 
look  in  a  mess  like.  There  is  a  right  way 
and  a  wrong  way  to  keep  tally  of  them  and 
I  can't  find  it  out." 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  289 

' '  The  right  way  is  to  keep  the  facts  all 
correct  and  honest  to  a  straw's  worth — then 
the  figures  are  bound  to  come  right,  I 
should  say. ' ' 

It  was  an  old  trouble  that  Archie  com- 
plained about.  He  was  MacAllister's 
steward,  appointed  by  virtue  of  his  sterling 
character  and  known  worth ;  but  struggling 
constantly  with  ignorance  of  the  methods 
by  which  even  the  most  honest  business 
can  alone  satisfactorily  prove  its  honest 
condition. 

When  Mr.  Semple  awoke  next  morning, 
Archie  had  disappeared,  and  David  was 
standing  in  the  door,  alone.  David  liked 
his  guest  less  in  the  morning  than  he  had 
done  at  night. 

"Ye  dinna  seem  to  relish  your  parritck, 
sir, ' '  said  David  rather  grimly. 

Mr.  Semple  said  he  really  had  never  been 
accustomed  to  anything  but  strong  tea  and 
hot  rolls,  with  a  little  kippered  salmon  or 
marmalade;  he  had  never  tasted  porridge 
before. 

"More's  the  pity,  my  lad.  Maybe  if 
you  had  been  brought  up  on  decent  oatmeal 
you  would  hae  thankit  God  for  your  food;" 
for  Mr.  Semple' s  omission  of  grace,  either 
before  or  after  his  meat,  greatly  displeased 
the  old  man. 

The  youth  yawned,  sauntered  to  the  door, 
and  looked  out.  There  was  a  fresh  wind, 
19 


290  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

bringing  with  it  flying  showers  and  damp, 
chilling  mists — wet  heather  under  foot,  and 
no  sunshine  above.  David  saw  sometning 
in  the  anxious,  wretched  face  that  aroused 
keen  suspicion.  He  looked  steadily  into 
Mr.  Semple's  pale,  blue  eyes,  and  said: 

"Wha  are  you  rinnin  awa  from,  my 
lad?" 

"Sir!" 

There  was  a  moment's  angry  silence. 
Suddenly  David  raised  his  hand,  shaded  his 
eyes  and  peered  keenly  down  the  hills. 
Mr.  Semple  followed  this  movement  with 
great  interest. 

"What  are  you  looking  at,  Mr.  Scott? 
Oh !  I  see.  Two  men  coming  up  this  way. 
Do  you  know  who  they  are?" 

"They  may  be  gangers  or  they  may  be 
strangers,  or  they  may  be  policemen — I 
dinna  ken  them  myselV 

"Mr.  Scott!  For  God's  sake,  Mr.  Scott! 
Don't  give  me  up,  and  I  will  tell  you  the 
whole  truth. ' ' 

"I  thought  so!"  said  David,  sternly. 
"Well,  come  up  the  hills  wi'  me;  yon  men 
will  be  here  in  ten  minutes,  whoever  they 
are. ' ' 

There  were  numerous  places  of  partial 
shelter  known  to  the  shepherd,  and  he  soon 
led  the  way  to  a  kind  of  cave,  pretty  well 
concealed  by  overhanging  rocks  and  trail- 
ing, briery  stems 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  291 

The  two  sat  down  on  a  rude  granite 
oowlder,  and  the  elder  having  waited  until 
his  companion  had  regained  his  breath, 
said: 

"You'll  fare  best  wi'  me,  lad,  if  you  tell 
the  truth  in  as  few  words  as  may  be;  I 
dinna  like  fine  speeches." 

''Mr.  Scott,  I  am  Duncan  Nevin's  book- 
keeper and  cashier.  He's  a  tea  dealer  in 
the  Gallowgate  of  Glasgow.  I'm  short  in 
my  cash,  and  he's  a  hard  man,  so  I  run 
away. ' ' 

"Sortie,  lad!  Your  cash  dinna  gang 
wrang  o'  itself.  If  you  werna  ashamed  to 
steal  it,  ye  needna  be  ashamed  to  confess  it. 
Begin  at  the  beginning. ' ' 

The  young  man  told  his  shameful  story. 
He  had  got  into  gay,  dissipated  ways,  and 
to  meet  a  sudden  demand  had  taken  three 
pounds  from  his  employer  for  just  once. 
But  the  three  pounds  had  swollen  into  six- 
teen, and  finding  it  impossible  to  replace 
it,  he  had  taken  ten  more  and  fled,  hoping 
to  hide  in  the  hills  till  he  could  get  rowed 
off  to  some  passing  ship  and  escape  to 
America.  He  had  no  friends,  and  neither 
father  nor  mother.  At  mention  of  this 
fact,  David's  face  relaxed. 

"Puir  lad!"  he  muttered.  "Nae  father, 
and  nae  mother,  'specially;  that's  a  awfu' 
drawback. ' ' 

' '  You  may  give  me  up  if  you  like,  Mr. 


292  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Scott.  I  don't  care  much;  I've  been  a 
wretched  fellow  for  many  a  week;  I  am 
most  broken-hearted  to-day." 

"It's  not  David  Scott  that  will  make 
himself  hard  to  a  broken  heart,  when  God 
in  heaven  has  promised  to  listen  to  it.  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  will  do.  You  sail  gie  me 
all  the  money  you  have,  every  shilling;  it's 
nane  o'  yours,  ye  ken  that  weel;  and  I'll 
take  it  to  your  master,  and  get  him  to  pass 
by  the  ither  till  you  can  earn  it.  I've  got 
a  son,  a  decent,  hard-working  lad,  who's 
daft  to  learn  your  trade — bookkeeping.  Ye 
sail  stay  wi'  me  till  he  kens  a'  the  ins  and 
outs  o'  it,  then  I'll  gie  ye  twenty  pounds. 
I  ken  weel  this  is  a  big  sum,  and  it  will 
make  a  big  hole  in  my  little  book  at  the 
Ayr  Bank,  but  it  will  set  Archie  up. 

"Then  when  ye  have  earned  it,  ye  can 
pay  back  all  you  have  stolen,  forbye  having 
four  pounds  left  for  a  nest-egg  to  start  again 
wi'.  I  dinna  often  treat  mysel'  to  such  a 
bit  o'  charity  as  this,  and,  'deed,  if  I  get 
na  mair  thanks  fra  heaven,  than  I  seem 
like  to  get  fra  you,  there  'ud  be  meikle  use 
in  it, ' '  for  Alexander  Semple  had  heard 
the  proposal  with  a  dour  and  thankless 
face,  far  from  encouraging  to  the  good  man 
who  made  it.  It  did  not  suit  that  youth  to 
work  all  summer  in  order  to  pay  back  what 
he  had  come  to  regard  as  "off  his  mind;" 
to  denude  himself  of  every  shilling,  and  be 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  293 

entirely  dependent  on  the  sternly  just  man 
before  him.  Yet  what  could  he  do?  He 
was  fully  in  David's  power;  so  he  sig- 
nified his  assent,  and  sullenly  enough  gave 
up  the  £9  143.  2d.  in  his  possession. 

"I'm  a  good  bookkeeper,  Mr.  Scott,"  he 
said;  "the  bargain  is  fair  enough  for  you." 

"I  ken  Donald  Nevin;  he's  a  Cample- 
town  man,  and  I  ken  you  wouldna  hae 
keepit  his  books  if  you  hadna  had  your 
business  at  your  finger-ends. ' ' 

The  next  day  David  went  to  Glasgow, 
and  saw  Mr.  Semple's  master.  The  £9  odd 
was  lost  money  found,  and  predisposed  him 
to  the  arrangement  proposed.  David  got 
little  encouragement  from  Mr.  Nevin,  how- 
ever; he  acknowledged  the  clerk's  skill  in 
accounts,  but  he  was  conceited  of  his  ap- 
pearance, ambitious  of  being  a  fashionable 
man,  had  weak  principles  and  was  intensely 
selfish.  David  almost  repented  him  of  his 
kindness,  and  counted  grudgingly  the  shil- 
lings that  the  journey  and  the  carriage  of 
Mr.  Semple's  trunks  cost  him. 

Indeed  it  was  a  week  or  two  before 
things  settled  pleasantly  in  the  hill  cottage; 
the  plain  living,  pious  habits  and  early 
hours  of  the  shepherd  and  his  son  did  not 
at  all  suit  the  city  youth.  But  Archie, 
though  ignorant  of  the  reasons  which  kept 
such  a  dandy  in  their  humble  home,  soon 
perceived  clearly  the  benefit  he  could  derive 


294  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

from  him.  And  once  Archie  got  an  ink- 
ling of  the  meaning  of  "double  entry"  he 
was  never  weary  of  applying  it  to  his  own 
particular  business;  so  that  in  a  few  weeks 
Alexander  Semple  was  perfectly  familiar 
with  MacAllister's  affairs. 

Still,  Archie  cordially  disliked  his 
teacher,  and  about  the  middle  of  summer  it 
became  evident  that  a  very  serious  cause  of 
quarrel  was  complicating  the  offence. 
Coming  up  from  MacAllister's  one  lovely 
summer  gloaming  Archie  met  Semple  with 
Katie  Morrison,  the  little  girl  whom  he  had 
loved  and  courted  since  ever  he  carried  her 
dinner  and  slate  to  school  for  her.  How 
they  had  come  to  know  each  other  he  could 
not  tell ;  he  had  exercised  all  his  tact  and 
prudence  to  prevent  it,  evidently  without 
avail.  He  passed  the  couple  with  ill-con- 
cealed anger;  Katie  looked  down,  Semple 
nodded  in  what  Archie  believed  to  be  an 
insolent  manner. 

That  night  David  Scott  heard  from  his 
son  such  an  outburst  of  anger  as  the  lad 
had  never  before  exhibited.  In  a  few  days 
Mr.  Semple  went  to  Greenock  for  a  day  or 
two.  Soon  it  was  discovered  that  Katie 
had  been  in  Greenock  two  days  at  her  mar- 
ried sister's.  Then  they  heard  that  the 
couple  had  married  and  were  to  sail  for 
America.  They  then  discovered  that 
Archie's  desk  had  been  opened  and  ^46  in 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  295 

notes  and  gold  taken.  Neither  of  the  men 
had  any  doubt  as  to  the  thief;  and  there- 
fore Archie  was  angry  and  astonished  to 
find  his  father  doubt  and  waver  and  seem 
averse  to  pursue  him.  At  last  he  acknowl- 
edged all,  told  Archie  that  if  he  made 
known  his  loss,  he  also  must  confess  that 
he  had  knowingly  harbored  an  acknowl- 
edged thief,  and  tacitly  given  him  the  op- 
portunity of  wronging  his  employer.  He 
doubted  very  much  whether  anyone  would 
give  him  credit  for  the  better  feelings  which 
had  led  him  to  this  course  of  conduct. 

Archie's  anger  cooled  at  once;  he  saw 
the  dilemma;  to  these  simple  people  a 
good  name  was  better  than  gold.  It  took 
nearly  half  the  savings  of  a  long  life,  but 
the  old  man  went  to  Ayr  and  drew  suffi- 
cient to  replace  the  stolen  money.  He 
needed  to  make  no  inquiries  about  Semple. 
On  Tuesday  it  was  known  by  everyone  in 
the  village  that  Katie  Morrison  and  Alex- 
ander Semple  had  been  married  the  pre- 
vious Friday,  and  sailed  for  America  the 
next  day.  After  this  certainty  father  and 
son  never  named  the  subject  but  once  more. 
It  was  on  one  calm,  spring  evening,  some 
ten  years  after,  and  David  lay  within  an 
hour  of  the  grave. 

<( Archie!"  he  said,  suddenly,  "I  don't 
regret  to-night  what  I  did  ten  years  ago. 
Virtuous  actions  sometimes  fail,  but  virtuous 


296  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

lives — never!  Perhaps  I  had  a  thought  o' 
self  in  my  good  intent,  and  that  spoiled  all. 
If  thou  hast  ever  a  chance,  do  better  than 
I  did." 

' '  I  will,  father. ' ' 

During  these  ten  years  there  had  been 
occasional  news  from  the  exiles.  Mrs. 
Morrison  stopped  Archie  at  intervals,  as  he 
passed  her  door,  and  said  there  had  been  a 
letter  from  Katie.  At  first  they  came  fre- 
quently, and  were  tinged  with  brightest 
hopes.  Alexander  had  a  fine  place,  and 
their  baby  was  the  most  beautiful  in  the 
world.  The  next  news  wras  that  Alexander 
was  in  business  for  himself  and  making 
money  rapidly.  Handsome  presents,  that 
were  the  wonder  of  the  village,  then  came 
occasionally,  and  also  remittances  of  money 
that  made  the  poor  mother  hold  her  head 
proudly  about  "our  Katie"  and  her 
' 'splendid  house  and  carriage." 

But  suddenly  all  letters  stopped,  and  the 
mother  thought  for  long  they  must  be  com- 
ing to  see  her,  but  this  hope  and  many 
another  faded,  and  the  fair  morning  of 
Katie's  marriage  was  shrouded  in  impene- 
trable gloom  and  mystery. 

Archie  got  bravely  over  his  trouble,  and 
a  while  after  his  father's  death  married  a 
good  little  woman,  not  quite  without  "the 
bit  of  siller. ' '  Soon  after  he  took  his  sav- 
ings to  Edinburgh  and  joined  his  wife's 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          297 

brother  in  business  there.  Things  pros- 
pered with  him,  slowly  but  surely,  and  he 
became  known  for  a  steady,  prosperous 
merchant,  and  a  douce  pious  householder, 
the  father  of  a  fine  lot  of  sons  and 
daughters. 

One  night,  twenty  years  after  the  begin- 
ning of  my  story,  he  was  passing  through 
the  old  town  of  Edinburgh,  when  a  wild 
cry  of  "Fire!  Fire!  Fire!"  arose  on  every 
side  of  him. 

"Where?"  he  asked  of  the  shrieking 
women  pouring  from  all  the  filthy,  narrow 
wynds  around. 

"In  Gordon's  Wynd." 

He  was  there  almost  the  first  of  any 
efficient  aid,  striving  to  make  his  way  up 
the  smoke-filled  stairs,  but  this  was  impos- 
sible. The  house  was  one  of  those  ancient 
ones,  piled  story  upon  story ;  so  old  that  it 
was  almost  tinder.  But  those  on  the  op- 
posite side  were  so  close  that  not  unfre- 
quently  a  plank  or  two  flung  across  from 
opposite  windows  made  a  bridge  for  the 
benefit  of  those  seeking  to  elude  justice. 

By  means  of  such  a  bridge  all  the  in- 
habitants of  the  burning  house  were  re- 
moved, and  no  one  was  more  energetic  in 
carrying  the  women  and  children  across  the 
dangerous  planks  than  Archie  Scott;  for 
his  mountain  training  had  made  such  a  feat 
one  of  no  extraordinary  danger  to  him. 


298  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Satisfied  at  length  that  all  life  was  out  of 
risk,  he  was  turning  to  go  home,  when  a 
white,  terrible  face  looked  out  of  the  top- 
most floor,  showing  itself  amid  the  gusts  of 
smoke  like  the  dream  of  a  corpse,  and 
screaming  for  help  in  agonizing  tones. 
Archie  knew  that  face  only  too  well.  But 
he  remembered,  in  the  same  instant,  what 
his  father  had  said  in  dying,  and,  swift  as 
a  mountain  deer,  he  was  quickly  on  the  top 
floor  of  the  opposite  house  again. 

In  a  few  moments  the  planks  bridged  the 
distance  between  death  and  safety ;  but  no 
entreaties  could  make  the  man  risk  the 
dangerous  passage.  Setting  tight  his  lips, 
Archie  went  for  the  shrieking  coward,  and 
carried  him  into  the  opposite  house.  Then 
the  saved  man  recognized  his  preserver. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Scott!"  he  said,  "for  God's 
sake,  my  wife  and  my  child !  The  last  of 
seven!" 

"You  scoundrel!  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  saved  yourself  before  Katie  and  your 
child!" 

Archie  did  not  wait  for  the  answer ;  again 
he  was  at  the  window  of  the  burning  room. 
Too  late !  The  flames  were  already  devour- 
ing what  the  smoke  had  smothered;  their 
wretched  pallet  was  a  funeral  pyre.  He 
had  hardly  time  to  save  his  own  life. 

"They  are  dead,  Semple!" 

Then   the   poor   creature    burst    into    a 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  299 

paroxysm  of  grief,  moaned  and  cried,  and 
begged  a  few  shillings,  and  vowed  he  was 
the  most  miserable  creature  on  earth. 

After  this  Archie  Scott  strove  for  two 
years  to  do  without  taint  of  selfishness  what 
his  father  had  begun  twenty  years  before. 
But  there  was  not  much  now  left  to  work 
upon — health,  honor,  self-respect  were  all 
gone.  Poor  Semple  was  content  to  eat  the 
bread  of  dependence,  and  then  make  boast- 
ful speeches  of  his  former  wealth  and  posi- 
tion. To  tell  of  his  wonderful  schemes, 
and  to  abuse  his  luck  and  his  false  friends, 
and  everything  and  everybody,  but  the 
real  cause  of  his  misfortune. 

Archie  gave  him  some  trifling  post,  with 
a  salary  sufficient  for  every  decent  want, 
and  never  heeded,  though  he  knew  Semple 
constantly  spoke  ill  of  him  behind  his  back. 

However  the  trial  of  Archie's  patience 
and  promise  did  not  last  very  long.  It  was 
a  cold,  snowy  night  in  mid-winter  that 
Archie  was  called  upon  to  exercise  for  the 
last  time  his  charity  and  forbearance  toward 
him;  and  the  parting  scene  paid  for  all. 
For,  in  the  shadow  of  the  grave,  the  poor, 
struggling  soul  dropped  all  pretences,  ac- 
knowledged all  its  shortcomings,  thanked 
the  forbearance  and  charity  which  had  been 
extended  so  many  years,  and  humbly  re- 
pented of  its  lost  and  wasted  opportunities. 

"Draw  close  to  me,   Archie  Scott,"  he 


300  Winter  Evening  J^ales 

said,  ' '  and  tell  your  four  brave  boys  what  my 
dying  words  to  them  were :  Never  to  yield 
to  temptation  for  only  this  once.  To  be 
quite  sure  that  all  the  gear  and  gold  that 
comes  with  sin  will  go  with  sorrow.  And 
never  to  doubt  that  to  every  evil  doer  will 
certainly  come  his  evil  day. ' ' 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          301 


PETRALTO'S  LOVE  STORY. 

I  am  addicted  to  making  strange  friend- 
ships, to  liking  people  whom  I  have  no 
conventional  authority  to  like — people  out 
of  "my  set/'  and  not  always  of  my  own 
nationality.  I  do  not  say  that  I  have  al- 
ways been  fortunate  in  these  ventures;  but 
I  have  had  sufficient  splendid  exceptions  to 
excuse  the  social  aberration,  and  make  me 
think  that  all  of  us  might  oftener  trust  our 
own  instincts,  oftener  accept  the  friends 
that  circumstance  and  opportunity  offer  us, 
with  advantage.  At  any  rate,  the  per- 
adventure  in  chance  associations  has  always 
been  very  attractive  to  me. 

In  some  irregular  way  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  Petralto  Garcia.  I  believe  I 
owed  the  introduction  to  my  beautiful 
hound,  Lutha;  but,  at  any  rate,  our  first 
conversation  was  quite  as  sensible  as  if  we 
had  gone  through  the  legitimate  initiation. 
I  know  it  was  in  the  mountains,  and  that 
within  an  hour  our  tastes  and  sympathies 
had  touched  each  other  at  twenty  different 
points. 

Lutha  walked  beside  us,  showing  in  his 
mien  something  of  the  proud  satisfaction 
which  follows  a  conviction  of  having  done 


302  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

a  good  thing.  He  looked  first  at  me  and 
then  at  Petralto,  elevating  and  depressing 
his  ears  at  our  argument,  as  if  he  under- 
stood all  about  it.  Perhaps  he  did;  human 
beings  don't  know  everything. 

People  have  so  much  time  in  the  country 
that  it  is  little  wonder  that  our  acquaint- 
ance ripened  into  friendship  during  the 
holidays,  and  that  one  of  my  first  visits 
when  I  had  got  settled  for  the  winter  was 
to  Petralto' s  rooms.  Their  locality  might 
have  cooled  some  people,  but  not  me.  It 
does  not  take  much  of  an  education  in  New 
York  life  to  find  out  that  the  pleasantest, 
loftiest,  handsomest  rooms  are  to  be  found 
in  the  streets  not  very  far  "up  town;" 
comfortably  contiguous  to  the  best  hotels, 
stores,  libraries,  picture  galleries,  and  all 
the  other  necessaries  of  a  pleasant  exist- 
ence. 

He  was  just  leaving  the  door  for  a  ride 
in  the  park,  and  we  went  together.  I  had 
refused  the  park  twice  within  an  hour,  and 
had  told  myself  that  nothing  should  induce 
me  to  follow  that  treadmill  procession 
again,  yet  when  he  said,  in  his  quiet  way, 
''You  had  better  take  half  an  hour's  ride, 
Jack,"  I  felt  like  going,  and  I  went. 

Now  just  as  we  got  to  the  Fifth  Avenue 
entrance,  a  singular  thing  happened.  Pe- 
tralto's  pale  olive  face  flushed  a  bright 
crimson,  his  eyes  flashed  and  dropped;  he 


iVinter  Evening  Tales.  303 

whipped  the  horse  into  a  furious  gallop,  as 
if  he  would  escape  something ;  then  became 
preter naturally  calm,  drew  suddenly  up, 
and  stood  waiting  for  a  handsome  equipage 
which  was  approaching.  Its  occupants 
were  bending  forward  to  speak  to  him.  I 
had  no  eyes  for  the  gentleman,  the  girl  at 
his  side  was  so  radiantly  beautiful. 

I  heard  Petralto  promise  to  call  on  them, 
and  we  passed  on ;  but  there  was  a  look  on 
his  face  which  bespoke  both  sympathy  and 
silence.  He  soon  complained  of  the  cold, 
said  the  park  pace  irritated  him,  but  still 
passed  and  repassed  the  couple  who  had 
caused  him  such  evident  suffering,  as  if  he 
was  determined  to  inure  himself  to  the  pain 
of  meeting  them.  During  this  interval  I 
had  time  to  notice  the  caressing,  lover-like 
attitude  of  the  beauty's  companion,  and  I 
said,  as  they  entered  a  stately  house  to- 
gether, "Are  they  married?" 

"Yes." 

' '  He  seems  devotedly  in  love  with  her. ' ' 

"He  loved  her  two  years  before  he  saw 
her." 

"Impossible." 

' '  Not  at  all.  I  have  a  mind  to  tell  you 
the  story. ' ' 

"Do.  Come  home  with  me,  and  we  will 
have  a  quiet  dinner  together. ' ' 

"No.  I  need  to  be  alone  an  hour  or 
two.  Call  on  me  about  nine  o'clock." 


304  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

Petralto's  rooms  were  a  little  astonish- 
ment to  me.  They  were  luxurious  in  the 
extreme,  with  just  that  excess  of  ornament 
which  suggests  under-civilization ;  and  yet 
I  found  him  smoking  in  a  studio  destitute 
of  everything  but  a  sleepy -looking  sofa, 
two  or  three  capacious  lounging  chairs,  and 
the  ordinary  furniture  of  an  artist's  atelier. 
There  was  a  bright  fire  in  the  grate,  a  flood 
of  light  from  the  numerous  gas  jets,  and  an 
atmosphere  heavy  with  the  seductive,  frag- 
rant vapor  of  Havana. 

I  lit  my  own  cigar,  made  myself  comfort- 
able, and  waited  until  it  was  Petralto's 
pleasure  to  begin.  After  a  while  he  said, 
'  'Jack,  turn  that  easel  so  that  you  can  see 
the  picture  on  it." 

I  did  so. 

"Now,  look  at  it  well,  and  tell  me 
what  you  see;  first,  the  locality — describe 
it." 

"  A  dim  old  wood,  with  sunlight  sifting 
through  thick  foliage,  and  long  streamers 
of  weird  grey  moss.  The  ground  is  cov- 
ered with  soft  short  grass  of  an  intense 
green,  and  there  are  wonderful  flowers  of 
wonderful  colors. " 

' '  Right.  It  is  an  opening  in  the  forest 
of  the  Upper  Guadalupe.  Now,  what  else 
do  you  see  ? ' ' 

"A  small  pony,  saddled  and  bridled, 
feeding  quietly,  and  a  young  girl  standing 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  305 

on  tip-toe,  pulling  down  a  vine  loaded  with 
golden -colored  flowers." 

' '  Describe  the  girl  to  me. ' ' 

I  turned  and  looked  at  my  querist.  He 
was  smoking,  with  shut  eyes,  and  waiting 
calmly  for  my  answer.  * '  Well,  she  has — 
Petralto,  what  makes  you  ask  me?  You 
might  paint,  but  it  is  impossible  to  describe 
light ;  and  the  girl  is  nothing  else.  If  I 
had  met  her  in  such  a  wood,  I  should  have 
thought  she  was  an  angel,  and  been  afraid 
of  her. ' ' 

"No  angel,  Jack,  but  a  most  exquisite, 
perfect  flower  of  maidenhood.  When  I  first 
saw  her,  she  stood  just  so,  with  her  open 
palms  full  of  yellow  jasmine.  I  laid  my 
heart  into  them,  too,  my  whole  heart,  my 
whole  life,  and  every  joy  and  hope  it  con- 
tained. ' ' 

"What  were  you  doing  in  Texas?" 

' '  What  are  you  doing  in  New  York  ?  I 
was  born  in  Texas.  My  family,  an  old 
Spanish  one,  have  been  settled  there  since 
they  helped  to  build  San  Antonio  in  1730. 
I  grew  up  pretty  much  as  Texan  youths 
do — half  my  time  in  the  saddle,  familiar 
with  the  worst  side  of  life  and  the  best  side 
of  nature.  I  should  have  been  a  thorough 
Ishmaelite  if  I  had  not  been  an  artist ;  but 
the  artistic  instinct  conquered  the  nomadic 
and  in  my  twentieth  year  I  went  to  Rome 
to  study. 


306  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

"I  can  pass  the  next  five  }rears.  I  do  not 
pretend  to  regret  them,  though,  perhaps, 
you  would  say  I  simply  wasted  time  and 
opportunity.  I  enjoyed  them,  and  it  seems 
to  me  I  was  the  person  most  concerned  in 
the  matter.  I  had  a  fresh,  full  capacity 
then  for  enjoyment  of  every  kind.  I  loved 
nature  and  I  loved  art.  I  warmed  both 
hands  at  the  glowing  fire  of  life.  Time 
may  do  his  worst.  I  have  been  happy,  and 
I  can  throw  those  five  careless,  jovial  years 
in  his  face  to  my  last  hour. 

' '  But  one  must  awake  out  of  every  pleas- 
ant dream,  and  one  day  I  got  a  letter 
urging  my  immediate  return  home.  My 
father  had  got  himself  involved  in  a  law- 
suit, and  was  failing  rapidly  in  health. 
My  younger  brother  was  away  with  a 
ranger  company,  and  the  affairs  of  the 
ranch  needed  authoritative  overlooking.  I 
was  never  so  fond  of  art  as  to  be  indifferent 
to  our  family  prosperity,  and  I  lost  no  time 
in  hurrying  West. 

"Still,  when  I  arrived  at  home,  there  was 
no  one  to  welcome  me !  The  noble,  gracious 
Garcia  slept  with  his  ancestors  in  the  old 
Alamo  Church ;  somewhere  on  the  llano  my 
brother  was  ranging,  still  with  his  wild 
company;  and  the  house,  in  spite  of  the 
family  servants  and  Mexican  peons,  was 
sufficiently  lonely.  Yet  I  was  astonished 
to  find  how  easily  I  went  back  to  my  old 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  307 

life,  and  spent  whole  days  in  the  saddle  in- 
vestigating the  affairs  of  the  Garcia  ranch. 

"I  had  been  riding  one  day  for  ten 
hours,  and  was  so  fatigued  that  I  deter- 
mined to  spend  the  night  with  one  of  my 
herdsmen.  He  had  a  little  shelter  under 
some  fine  pecan  trees  on  the  Guadalupe, 
and  after  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  meal  of 
dried  beef,  I  sauntered  with  my  cigar  down 
the  river  bank.  Then  the  cool,  dusky  shad- 
ows of  the  wood  tempted  me.  I  entered 
it.  It  was  an  enchanted  wood,  for  there 
stood  Jessy  Lorimer,  just  as  I  had  painted 
her. 

"I  did  not  move  nor  speak.  I  watched 
her,  spell-bound.  I  had  not  even  the  power, 
when  she  had  mounted  her  pony  and  was 
coming  toward  me,  to  assume  another  at- 
titude. She  saw  that  I  had  been  watching 
her,  and  a  look,  half  reproachful  and  half 
angry,  came  for  a  moment  into  her  face. 
But  she  inclined  her  head  to  me  as  she 
passed,  and  then  went  off  at  a  rapid  gallop 
before  I  could  collect  my  senses. 

"Some  people,  Jack,  walk  into  love  with 
their  eyes  open,  calculating  every  step.  I 
tumbled  in  over  head,  lost  my  feet,  lost  my 
senses,  narrowed  in  one  moment  the  whole 
world  down  to  one  bewitching  woman.  I 
did  not  know  her,  of  course;  but  I  soon 
should.  I  was  well  aware  she  could  not 
live  very  far  away,  and  that  niy  herd  must 


308  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

be  able  to  give  me  some  information.  I 
was  so  deeply  in  love  that  this  poor  igno- 
rant fellow,  knowing  something  about  this 
girl,  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  person  to  be 
respected,  and  even  envied. 

' '  I  gave  him  immediately  a  plentiful 
supply  of  cigars,  and  sitting  down  beside 
him  opened  the  conversation  with  horses, 
but  drifted  speedily  into  the  subject  of  new 
settlers. 

* '  'Were  there  any  since  I  had  left?' 

"  'Two  or  three,  no  'count  travelers,  one 
likely  family.' 

"  'Much  of  a  family?' 

"  'You  may  bet  on  that,  sir.' 
'  'Any  pleasant  young  men?' 

"  'Reckon  so.  Mighty  likely  young 
gal.' 

"So,  bit  by  bit,  I  found  that  Mr.  Lori- 
mer,  my  beauty's  father,  was  a  Scotchman, 
who  had  bought  the  ranch  which  had  for- 
merly belonged  to  the  old  Spanish  family 
of  the  Yturris.  Then  I  remembered  pretty 
Inez  and  Dolores  Yturri,  with  their  black 
eyes,  olive  skins  and  soft,  lazy  embonpoint ; 
and  thought  of  golden-haired  Jessy  Larimer 
in  their  dark,  latticed  rooms. 

"Jack,  turn  the  picture  to  me.  Beautiful 
Jessy!  How  I  loved  her  in  those  happy 
days  that  followed.  How  I  humored  her 
grave,  stern  father  and  courted  her  brothers 
for  her  sake !  I  was  a  slave  to  the  whole 


Winter  Evening  Tates.  309 

family,  so  that  I  might  gain  an  hour  with 
or  a  smile  from  Jessy.  Do  I  regret  it  now? 
Not  one  moment.  Such  delicious  hours  as 
we  had  together  were  worth  any  price.  I 
would  throw  all  my  future  to  old  Time, 
Jack,  only  to  live  them  over  again." 

"That  is  a  great  deal  to  say,  Petralto. " 

* '  Perhaps ;  and  yet  I  will  not  recall  it. 
In  those  few  months  everything  that  was 
good  in  me  prospered  and  grew.  Jessy 
brought  out  nothing  but  the  best  part  of  my 
character.  I  was  always  at  my  best  with 
her.  No  thought  of  selfish  pleasure  mingled 
in  my  love  for  her.  If  it  delighted  me  to 
touch  her  hand,  to  feel  her  soft  hair  against 
my  cheek,  to  meet  her  earnest,  subduing 
gaze,  it  also  made  me  careful  by  no  word 
or  look  to  soil  the  dainty  purity  of  my  white 
lily. 

"I  feared  to  tell  her  that  I  loved  her. 
But  I  did  do  it,  I  scarcely  know  how.  The 
softest  whisper  seemed  too  loud  against  her 
glowing  cheek.  She  trembled  from  head 
to  foot.  I  was  faint  and  silent  with  rapture 
when  she  first  put  her  little  hand  in  mine, 
and  suffered  me  to  draw  her  to  my  heart. 
Ah!  I  am  sick  with  joy  yet  when  I  think 
of  it.  I— I  first,  I  alone,  woke  that  sweet 
young  heart  to  life.  She  is  lost,  lost  to  me, 
but  no  one  else  can  ever  be  to  her  what  I 
have  been. ' ' 

And  here  Petralto,  giving  full  sway  to  his 


310  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

impassioned  Southern  nature,  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands  and  wept  hot,  regretful 
tears. 

Tears  come  like  blood  from  men  of  cold, 
strong  temperaments,  but  they  were  the 
natural  relief  of  Petralto's.  I  let  him 
weep.  In  a  few  minutes  he  leaped  up, 
and  began  pacing  the  room  rapidly  as  he 
went  on : 

'  *  Mr.  Lorimer  received  my  proposal  with 
a  dour,  stiff  refusal  that  left  me  no  hope  of 
any  relenting.  '  He  had  reasons,  more 
than  one,'  he  said;  'he  was  not  saying 
anything  against  either  my  Spanish  blood  or 
my  religion ;  but  it  was  no  fault  in  a  Scots- 
man to  mate  his  daughter  with  people  of  her 
own  kith. ' 

"There  was  no  quarrel,  and  no  dis- 
courtesy; but  I  saw  I  could  bend  an  iron 
bar  with  my  pleadings  just  as  soon  as  his 
determination.  Jessy  received  orders  not 
to  meet  me  or  speak  to  me  alone;  and  the 
possibility  of  disobeying  her  father's  com- 
mand never  suggested  itself  to  her.  Even 
I  struggled  long  with  my  misery  before  I 
dared  to  ask  her  to  practice  her  first  deceit. 

' '  She  would  not  meet  me  alone,  but  she 
persuaded  her  mother  to  come  once  with 
her  to  our  usual  tr}Tst  in  the  wood.  Mrs. 
Lorimer  spoke  kindly  but  hopelessly,  and 
covered  her  own  face  to  weep  while  Jessy 
and  I  took  of  each  other  a  passionate 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  311 

farewell.  I  promised  her  then  never  to 
marry  anyone  else;  and  she! — I  thought  her 
heart  would  break  as  I  laid  her  almost  faint- 
ing in  her  mother's  arms. 

' '  Yet  I  did  not  know  how  much  Jessy 
really  was  to  me  until  I  suddenly  found  out 
that  her  father  had  sent  her  back  to  Scot- 
land, under  the  pretence  of  finishing  her 
education.  I  had  been  so  honorably  con- 
siderate of  Jessy's  Puritan  principles  that  I 
felt  this  hasty,  secret  movement  exceedingly 
unkind  and  unjust.  Guadalupe  became 
hateful  to  me,  the  duties  of  the  ranch  dis- 
tracting; and  my  brother  Felix  returning 
about  this  time,  we  made  a  division  of  the 
estate.  He  remained  at  the  Garcia  man- 
sion, I  rented  out  my  possessions,  and  went, 
first  to  New  Orleans,  and  afterward  to 
New  York. 

' '  In  New  York  I  opened  a  studio,  and 
one  day  a  young  gentleman  called  and 
asked  me  to  draw  a  picture  from  some 
crude,  imperfect  sketch  which  a  friend  had 
made.  During  the  progress  of  the  picture 
he  frequently  called  in.  For  some  reason 
or  other — probably  because  we  were  each 
other's  antipodes  in  tastes  and  tempera- 
ment— he  became  my  enthusiastic  admirer, 
and  interested  himself  greatly  to  secure  me 
a  lucrative  patronage. 

' '  Yet  some  subtle  instinct,  which  I  can- 
not pretend  to  divine  or  explain,  constantly 


312  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

warned  me  to  beware  of  this  man.  But  I 
was  ashamed  and  angry  at  myself  for  link- 
ing even  imaginary  evil  with  so  frank  and 
generous  a  nature.  I  defied  destiny,  turned 
a  deaf  ear  to  the  whisperings  of  my  good 
genius,  and  continued  the  one-sided  friend- 
ship— for  I  never  even  pretended  to  myself 
that  I  had  any  genuine  liking  for  the  man. 
"One  day,  when  we  had  become  very  famil- 
iar, he  ran  up  to  see  me  about  something, 
I  forget  what,  and  not  finding  me  in  the 
outer  apartments,  penetrated  to  my  private 
room.  There,  upon  that  easel,  Will  Lennox 
first  saw  the  woman  you  saw  with  him  to- 
night— the  picture  which  you  are  now  look- 
ing at — and  he  fell  as  desperately  in  love 
with  it,  in  his  way,  as  I  had  done  in  the 
Guadalupe  woods  with  the  reality.  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  much  it  cost  me  to  restrain 
my  anger.  He,  however,  never  noticed  I 
was  angry.  He  had  but  one  object  now — 
to  gain  from  me  the  name  and  residence  of 
the  original. 

' '  It  was  no  use  to  tell  him  it  was  a  fancy- 
picture,  that  he  was  sighing  for  an  imagi- 
nation. He  never  believed  it  for  a  moment. 
I  would  not  sell  it,  I  would  not  copy  it,  I 
would  not  say  where  I  had  painted  it;  I 
kept  it  to  my  most  sacred  privacy.  He  was 
sure  that  the  girl  existed,  and  that  I  knew 
where  she  lived.  He  was  very  rich,  with- 
out an  occupation  or  an  object,  and  Jessy's 


Winter  Evening  Tales.  313 

pure,  lovely  face  haunted  him  day  and 
night,  and  supplied  him  with  a  purpose. 

' '  He  came  to  me  one  day  and  offering 
me  a  large  sum  of  money,  asked  me  finally 
to  reveal  at  least  the  locality  of  which 
I  had  painted  the  picture.  His  free, 
frank  unembarrassed  manner  compels  me 
to  believe  that  he  had  no  idea  of  the  in- 
tolerable insult  he  was  perpetrating.  He 
had  always  been  accustomed  to  consider 
more  or  less  money  an  equivalent  for  all 
things  under  the  sun.  But  you,  Jack,  will 
easily  understand  that  the  offer  was  fol- 
lowed by  some  very  angry  words,  and  that 
his  threat  to  hunt  the  world  over  to  find  my 
beauty  was  not  without  fear  to  me. 

"I  heard  soon  after  that  Will  Lennox 
had  gone  to  the  South.  I  had  neither 
hidden  nor  talked  about  my  former  life  and 
I  was  ignorant  of  how  much  he  knew  or  did 
not  know  of  it.  He  could  trace  me  easily 
to  New  Orleans ;  how  much  further  would 
depend  upon  his  tact  and  perseverance. 
Whether  he  reached  Guadalupe  or  no,  I  am 
uncertain,  but  my  heart  fell  with  a  strange 
presentiment  of  sorrow  when  I  saw  his 
name,  a  few  weeks  afterward,  among  the 
European  departures. 

'  'The  next  thing  I  knew  of  Will  Lennox 
was  his  marriage  to  some  famous  Scotch 
beauty.  Jack,  do  you  not  perceive  the  rest? 
The  Scotch  beauty  was  Jessy  L,orimer.  I 


314  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

feared  it  at  the  first.  I  knew  it  this  after- 
noon." 

"Will  you  call  there?" 

' '  I  have  no  power  to  resist  it.  Did  you 
not  notice  how  eagerly  she  pressed  the  in- 
vitation?" 

' '  Do  not  accept  it,  Petralto. ' ' 

He  shook  his  head,  and  remained  silent. 
The  next  afternoon  I  was  astonished  on 
going  up  to  his  rooms  to  find  Will  Lennox 
sitting  there.  He  was  talking  in  that  loud, 
happy,  demonstrative  way  so  natural  to 
men  accustomed  to  have  the  whole  world 
minister  unto  them. 

He  did  not  see  how  nervous  and  angry 
Petralto  was  under  his  easy,  boastful  con- 
versation. He  did  not  notice  the  ashy  face, 
the  blazing  eyes,  the  set  lips,  the  trembling 
hands,  of  the  passionate  Spanish  nature, 
until  Petralto  blazed  out  in  a  torrent  of 
unreasonable  words  and  taunts,  and  ordered 
Lennox  out  of  his  presence. 

Even  then  the  stupid,  good-natured, 
purse-proud  man  could  not  see  his  danger. 
He  began  to  apologize  to  me  for  Petralto 's 
rudeness,  and  excuse  "anything  in  a  fellow 
whom  he  had  cut  out  so  badly. ' ' 

"Liar!"  Petralto  retorted.  "She  loved 
me  first;  you  can  never  have  her  whole 
heart.  Begone!  If  I  had  you  on  the 
Guadalupe,  where  Jessy  and  I  lived  and 
loved,  I  would — " 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          315 

The  sentence  was  not  finished.  Lennox 
struck  Petralto  to  the  ground,  and  before  I 
raised  him,  I  persuaded  the  angry  bride- 
groom to  retire.  I  stayed  with  Petralto 
that  night,  although  I  was  not  altogether 
pleased  with  him.  He  was  sulky  and 
silent  at  first,  but  after  a  quiet  rest  and  a 
few  consoling  Havanas  he  was  willing  to 
talk  the  affair  over. 

"Lennox  tortured  me,"  he  said,  pas- 
sionately. "How  could  he  be  so  unfeeling, 
so  mad,  as  to  suppose  I  should  care  to  learn 
what  chain  of  circumstances  led  him  to  find 
out  my  love  and  then  steal  her  ?  Everything 
he  said  tortured  me  but  one  fact — Jessy  was 
alone  and  thoroughly  miserable.  Poor  little 
pet !  She  thought  I  had  forgotten  her,  and 
so  she  married  him — not  for  love;  I  won't 
believe  it. ' ' 

"But,"  I  said,  "Petralto,  you  have  no 
right  to  hug  such  a  delusion ;  and  seeing 
that  you  had  made  no  attempt  to  follow 
Jessy  and  marry  her,  she  had  every  right 
to  suppose  you  really  had  forgotten  her. 
Besides,  I  think  it  very  likely  that  she 
should  love  a  young,  rich,  good-looking 
fellow  like  Will  Lennox. ' ' 

"In  not  pursuing  her  I  was  following 
Jessy's  own  request  and  obeying  my  own 
plighted  promise.  It  was  understood  be- 
tween us  that  I  should  wait  patiently  until 
Jessy  was  twenty-one.  Even  Scotch  customs 


316  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

would  then  have  regarded  her  as  her  own 
mistress  and  acknowledged  her  right  to 
marry  as  she  desired;  and  if  I  did  not 
write,  she  has  not  wanted  constant  tokens 
of  my  remembrance.  I  have  trusted  her, ' ' 
he  said,  mournfully,  "  without  a  sign  from 
her." 

That  winter  the  beauty  of  Mrs.  Lennox 
and  the  devotion  of  her  hubsand  were  on 
every  tongue.  But  married  is  not  mated, 
and  the  best  part  of  Jessy  Lorimer's  beauty 
had  never  touched  Will  Lennox.  Her 
pure,  simple,  poetic  temperament  he  had 
never  understood,  and  he  felt  in  a  dim, 
uncertain  way  that  the  noblest  part  of  his 
wife  escaped  him. 

He  could  not  enter  into  her  feelings,  and 
her  spiritual  superiority  unconsciously  ir- 
ritated him.  Jessy  had  set  her  love's  first 
music  to  the  broad,  artistic  heart  of  Pe- 
tralto;  she  could  not,  without  wronging 
herself,  decline  to  a  lower  range  of  feelings 
and  a  narrower  heart.  This  reserve  of  her- 
self was  not  a  conscious  one.  She  was  not 
one  of  those  self -involved  women  always 
studying  their  own  emotions;  she  was 
simply  true  to  the  light  within  her.  But 
her  way  was  not  Will  Lennox's  way,  her 
finer  fancies  and  lighter  thoughts  were 
mysteries  to  his  grosser  nature. 

So  the  thing  happened  which  always  has 
and  always  will  happen  in  such  cases;  when 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          317 

the  magic  and  the  enchantment  of  Jessy's 
great  personal  beauty  had  lost  their  first 
novelty  and  power,  she  gradually  became 
to  her  husband — "Something  better  than 
his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse. ' ' 

I  did  not  much  blame  Will  L,ennox.  It 
is  very  hard  to  love  what  we  do  not  com- 
prehend. A  wife  who  could  have  sym- 
pathized in  his  pursuits,  talked  over  the 
chances  of  his  "  Favorite, "  or  gone  to  sea 
with  him  in  his  yacht,  would  always  have 
found  Will  an  indulgent  and  attentive  hus- 
band. But  fast  horses  did  not  interest 
Jessy,  and  going  to  sea  made  her  ill;  so 
gradually  these  two  fell  much  further  apart 
than  they  ought  to  have  done. 

Now,  if  Petralto  had  been  wicked  and 
Jessy  weak,  he  might  have  revenged  him- 
self on  the  man  and  woman  who  had 
wrought  him  so  much  suffering.  But  he 
had  set  his  love  far  too  high  to  sully  her 
white  name;  and  Jessy,  in  that  serenity 
which  comes  of  lofty  and  assured  principles, 
had  no  idea  of  the  possibility  of  her  injur- 
ing her  husband  by  a  wrong  thought.  Yet 
instinctively  they  both  sought  to  keep  apart ; 
and  if  by  chance  they  met,  the  grave  cour- 
tesy of  the  one  and  the  sweet  dignity  of  the 
other  left  nothing  for  evil  hopes  or  thoughts 
to  feed  upon.  One  morning,  two  years 
after  Jessy's  marriage,  I  received  a  note 
from  Petralto,  asking  me  to  call  upon  him 


318  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

immediately.  To  my  amazement,  his  rooms 
were  dismantled,  his  effects  packed  up,  and 
he  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  New  York. 

"Whither  bound?"  I  asked.  "To 
Rome?" 

"No;  to  the  Guadalupe.  I  want  to  try 
what  nature  can  do  for  me.  Art,  society, 
even  friendship,  fail  at  times  to  comfort  me 
for  my  lost  love.  I  will  go  back  to  nature, 
the  great,  sweet  mother  and  lover  of  men. " 

So  Petralto  went  out  of  New  York ;  and 
the  world  that  had  known  him  forgot  him — 
forgot  even  to  wonder  about,  much  less  to 
regret,  him. 

I  was  no  more  faithful  than  others.  I 
fell  in  with  a  wonderful  German  philoso- 
pher, and  got  into  the  "entities"  and  "non- 
entities," forgot  Petralto  in  Hegel,  and  felt 
rather  ashamed  of  the  days  when  I  lounged 
and  trifled  in  the  artist's  pleasant  rooms. 
I  was  " enamored  of  divine  philosophy," 
took  no  more  interest  in  polite  gossip,  and 
did  not  waste  my  time  reading  newspapers. 
In  fact,  with  Kant  and  Fichte  before  me,  I 
did  not  feel  that  I  had  the  time  lawfully  to 
spare. 

Therefore,  anyone  may  imagine  my  as- 
tonishment when,  about  three  years  after 
Petralto 's  departure  from  New  York,  he 
one  morning  suddenly  entered  my  study, 
handsome  as  Apollo  and  happy  as  a 
bridegroom.  I  have  used  the  word 


Winter  Evening  Tales.          319 

' '  groom' '  very  happily,  for  I  found  out  in  a 
few  minutes  that  Petralto's  radiant  condi- 
tion was,  in  fact,  the  condition  of  a  bride- 
groom. 

Of  course,  under  the  circumstances,  I 
could  not  avoid  feeling  congratulatory ;  and 
my  affection  for  the  handsome,  loving  fellow 
came  back  so  strongly  that  I  resolved  to 
break  my  late  habits  of  seclusion,  and  go 
to  the  Brevoort  House  and  see  his  bride. 

I  acknowledge  that  in  this  decision  there 
was  some  curiosity.  I  wondered  what  rare 
woman  had  taken  the  beautiful  Jessy  Lori- 
mer's  place;  and  I  rather  enjoyed  the  pros- 
pect of  twitting  him  with  his  protestations 
of  eternal  fidelity  to  his  first  love. 

I  did  not  do  it.  I  had  no  opportunity. 
Madame  Petralto  Garcia  was,  in  fact,  Jessy 
Lorimer  Lennox.  Of  course  I  understood 
at  once  that  Will  must  be  dead ;  but  I  did 
not  learn  the  particulars  until  the  next  day, 
when  Petralto  dropped  in  for  a  quiet  smoke 
and  chat.  Not  unwillingly  I  shut  my  book 
and  lit  my  cigar. 

"  'All's  well  that  ends  well,'  my  dear 
fellow, ' '  I  said,  when  we  had  both  smoked 
silently  for  a  few  moments;  "but  I  never 
heard  of  Will  Lennox's  death.  I  hope  he 
did  not  come  to  the  Guadalupeand  get  shot. ' ' 

Petralto  shook  his  head  and  replied:  "I 
was  always  sorry  for  that  threat.  Will 
never  meant  to  injure  me.  No.  He  was 


320  Winter  Evening  Tales. 

drowned  at  sea  two  years  ago.  His  yacht 
was  caught  in  a  storm,  he  ventured  too 
near  the  shore,  and  all  on  board  perished." 
"I  did  not  hear  of  it  at  the  time." 
"Nor  I  either.  I  will  tell  you  how  I 
heard.  About  a  year  ago  I  went,  as  was 
my  frequent  custom,  to  the  little  open  glade 
in  the  forest  where  I  had  first  seen  Jessy. 
As  I  lay  dreaming  on  the  warm  soft  grass  I 
saw  a  beautiful  woman,  clothed  in  black, 
walk  slowly  toward  the  very  same  jasmine 
vine,  and  standing  as  of  old  on  tip-toe,  pull 
down  a  loaded  branch.  Can  you  guess  how 
my  heart  beat,  how  I  leaped  to  my  feet  and 
cried  out  before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing, 
'Jessy!  darling  Jessy!'  She  stood  quite 
still,  looking  toward  me.  Oh,  how  beauti- 
ful she  was!  And  when  at  length  we 
clasped  hands,  and  I  gazed  into  her  eyes,  I 
knew  without  a  word  that  my  love  had 
come  to  me. ' ' 

"She  had  waited  a  whole  year?" 
"True;  I  liked  her  the  better  for  that. 
After  Will's  death  she  went  to  Scotland — 
put  both  herself  and  me  out  of  temptation. 
She  owed  this  much  to  the  memory  of  a 
man  who  had  loved  her  as  well  as  he  was 
capable  of  doing.  But  I  know  how  happy 
were  the  steps  that  brought  her  back  to  the 
Guadalupe,  and  that  warm  spring  afternoon 
under  the  jasmine  vine  paid  for  all.  I  am 
the  happiest  man  in  all  the  wide  world. ' ' 


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